ILIBRARY OF CONGRESS. I 

\ —^ ^- # 

^UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.} 






'IV~'(' 



JOSEPHINE, 



AND OTHER POEMS 



i BY 



/ 



S. TUCKER CLARK. 



BOSTON: 
PUBLISHED FOR THE AUTHOR, 

BY GEO. C. RAND & AVERT. 

1856. 



C 19^ 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1866, 

By S. tucker CLARK, 
in tlie Clerk's office of the District Court of Massachusetts. 



mg parents, 



Who wiped away the tears that they were weeping 

Above their first horn's grave, 
To smOe on me, then in my cradle sleeping, 

And bless the God who gave; 
To them I dedicate this little token, 

A pledge sincere, 
That as the golden strings of life are broken, 

And death draws near, 
Their only son, a staff to them shall prove, 
And bear them gently in the arms of love. 



PREFACE. 



With many misgivings, I present this offering to those, 
who, by chance, may be so fond of reading, as to read every 
book that is published. 

Those even who examine may disapprove ; and I may, 
when I become a man, blush that I ever exposed my boyish 
attempts at verse-making ; but be that as it may, if it is true 
that " a great book is a great evil," my offence is but trifling. 

Happy Allejj, July 8, 1856. S. T. C. 



JOSEPHINE: 



A HISTORICAL POEM. 



PROEM. 



Answer, oh, heartless pretender, 
Deeming fair wonian can render 

Only a service most menial ! 
Where is the loving and caring, 
Watching and praying, while sharing 

Even thy life course so varying? 



10 POEMS. 

Ushered in infantile weakness, 
Into a world where true meekness, 

Virtue and candor seem obsolete — 
Man finds a home and a safe rest, 
Pillows his head on a pure breast, 

Tenderly bearing his helplessness. 

Leaving the world, how his death throes, 
Bodily anguish and soul woes 

Yield to the breath of true sympathy. 
Soothing the pain throbs so gently, 
Pointing to heaven all intently, 

Woman, thy mission angelic is. 

Of such a being I write now; 

Bring me fresh leaves and a lithe bough 

Torn from the evergreen laurel tree; 
Let them be dipped in the fountain 
Plowing from Helicon mountain, 

That I may crown her loved memory; 



PEOEM. 11 

Crown, with a garland befitting 
One, who was never forgetting 

Kindness to all; but who womanly 
Battled for right; and was sharing 
Sorrow each loved one was bearing, 

Bearing for her or her country's sake. 



12 



CHAPTER I 



FIRST LOVE, PREDICTION, DISAPPOINTMENT. 



Isle in the midst of the sea foam, 
Martinique, earliest, best home, 

Of our fair heroine Josephine. 
Tropical flowers were around her. 
Love here with golden chains bound her, 

Bound to a brave and a noble one. 



FIRST LOVE, PREDICTION, DISAPPOINTMENT. 13 

Far from the home of his childhood 
William departs ; and the wild wood 

Josephine seeks in her loneliness. 
Birds, in the branches above her. 
Bring back the words of her lover, 

Words that like music sweet ravish her. 

Josephine meets with the dreamer 
Skillful in magic ; and tremor 

Seizes the sibyl Euphemia; 
"Wildly she stares ; then declaring 
Destiny changeful, preparing. 

Changeful preparing for Josephine, 

Tells her a bride she beholds her ; 
And as her mantle enfolds her, 

So will the clouds of adversity; 
Widow bereft, and in dark weeds. 
Mourning in sorrow o'er crushed reeds, 

And o'er the mem'ry of absent ones. 



14 POEMS. 

Skillful in lore of past ages, 
Different fortune presages; 

Now, as an empress sees Josephine ; 
Then from the friends that should love her, 
"When the thick clouds o'er her hover. 

Forced far away from them, heartlessly. 

Closely the Creole girl listened, 
Mirthful her thoughtful eye glistened. 

Blushing to hear such a fortune told; 
Laughed at the sibyl's disclosure. 
Looked on her life with composure, 

Trusted, believed not the prophetess. 

Still, when the curtain of night fell, 
Fearful that all would not end well, 

Josephine thought the prediction o'er. 
Who of us mortals would fain know 
Every change, as the waves flow, 

Bearing us on to eternity ? 



FIRST LOVE, PREDICTION, DISAPPOINTMENT. 15 

Spirits, like witches of Endor, 
Haply, to mortals may render 

Pages of future fate legible ; 
But, since our fortune is hidden, 
Why should its spectre be bidden 

Up from the shades of futurity ? 

Josephine's hours are now dreary; 
Gone is her lover; and weary, 

Weary she waits for his coming home : 
But, as a looked for to-morrow. 
Never that day came, and sorrow 

Woke in the bosom of Josephine. 

As the last notes of a sweet sang 
Float on the ear, so her love, long 

Lingered, embalmed in her memory ; 
And when the ties that had bound her 
Broken were, floating around her 

Still, was the dream of her early love. 



16 POEMS. 

'Round our first love is a charm thrown, 
Never again to the soul known, 

Never in subsequent loving known. 
Every heartfelt and kind word 
Brings back the voice that was first heard 

Speaking the language of tenderness. 

Youth is a season of pleasure, 
Pleasure almost beyond measure, 

Bouyant and bright, yet ephemeral. 
Middle age comes with its care then, 
Wond'ring, we ask to know where then 

The spring of our lifetime has flown too. 

Old age throws o'er us its death chill, 
"Wond'ring, we question ourselves still, 

Where are the dark locks of former days ? 
Changing the raven, for hoar hair. 
Trembling and weakness are now, where 

Once was activity, usefulness. 



17 



CHAPTER II. 



THE WIFE, THE MOTHEE, THE EXILE. 



Josephine, now in her full bloom, 
Leans on the arm of a bridegroom; 

Lists to her epithalamium. 
Beauharnais, man of high bearing. 
Worthy the duty of caring 

For the sweet maiden of Martinique. 



18 POEkS. 

Beauharnais, proud of the flower, 
Bore from its fair western bower 

Over the sea, to his princely home. 
Josephine, now in a high sphere. 
Lived, as though never a dark fear 

Whispered to mind, of her coming fate. 

Swiftly the happy hours glided. 
Guardian angels that guided 

Josephine on in her happiness. 
Smiled, as they saw that her offspring, 
Would to her future a joy bring. 

Solace, and joy in her loneliness. 

Mother of Hortense and Eugene, 
Mother, a title that I ween. 

Dearer by far was to Josephine, 
Than appellation more sounding; 
Mother, the word is abounding. 

Carefulness, prayerfulness mingle here. 



THE WIFE, THE MOTHEE, THE EXILE. 19 

Vain are our dreams of the present; 
Thougli at the dawn it is pleasant, 

Balmy air, sunshine and zephyr may, 
Ere the god Phoebus has driven 
The day car of gold, to mid heaven, 

Change, for the lightning and hurricane. 

So, though the morn may betoken 
Gladness, ere noon may be broken 

Every string of the human heart; 
Man be borne over the dark tide, 
Where the pale spirits and ghosts bide, 

Into the land of the wonderful. 

Josephine's life, once unclouded, 
Now with a dark veil is shrouded, 

That veil was woven by jealousy. 
He who had promised to guide her. 
Guard her whate'er should betide her, 

Coldly refuses to shelter her. 



2(F POEMS. 

Jealousy, fury with baned tongue, 
Many a soul hath thy fangs stung. 

Daughter of darkness and misery, 
Worse than the Gorgon Medusa, 
Thou of the change art producer. 

Change, that to stone turns the spirit part. 

Sent out as Hagar of old was; 
Earth then to Josephine cold was. 

All save the home-land, fair Martinique; 
There where the waters and winds play. 
Loved she to linger the long day, 

Linger, and think of her hopelessness. 

There was her refuge; and Hortense 
Seemed to breathe o'er her an incense, 

Soothing the pain of her solitude. 
Eugene, the filial and kindly, 
Still was with him, who had blindly. 

Blindly, an exile made Josephine. 



THE WIFE, THE MOTHER, THE EXILE. 21 

What is a promise of love worth 
Where there is naught but a cold dearth, 

Famine in soul, of true principle. 
As the shed tears of a noon shower, 
Cheering awhile the fair field flower. 

Leaving it then to the summer's heat. 

Ere night comes on, with its soft dew, 
Blighted it stands where it once grew, 

Emblem of human mortality. 
So fades the love of the many; 
Is it a strange thing if any 

Doubt the existence of constancy? 

Woe ! for the heart that's neglected ; 
Crushed; let it bow down dejected; 

Covered with sackcloth and ashes be- 
Bitter herbs seem far more loathing, 
After a sweet draught; and loving 

Maketh neglect seem the bitterer. 



22 



CHAPTER III. 



THE REUNITED. 



As on tlie dark cloud the sun's glow 
Paints, in bright colors, the rainbow, 

Telling the storm has passed over us ; 
So doth a message or love lay 
Bring to the heart a fresh hope ray. 

Sketching to mind scenes of happiness. 



THE REUNITED. 23 

It was no want of affection, 
Desert of soul; but subjection 

To the invasion of jealousy, 
That had made Beauharnais coldly 
Send her away, whom he boldly 

Now will implore to be reconciled. 

Beauharnais calls o'er the sea wave, 
Calls to the island that first gave. 

Gave him the beautiful Josephine ; 
Asking the daughter and mother, 
Back to the husband and brother. 

Back to their home, in the eastern land. 

Joyful, believing each loved word. 
Homeward she hies, as a glad bird 

Flies to its nest and its waiting brood. 
Glad, Alexander receives her, 
Sad, when he thinks that it grieves her, 

Grieves her to think how unkind he was. 



24 POEMS. 

Josephine," being united 
With Alexander, who slighted 

Once both her love and companionship. 
Feels, when resuming her station, 
Joy, in forgiving vexation, 

Anger and hatred and jealousy. 

Happy, twice happy the home band 
Where heart is joined with the right hand, 

Here on the altar Hymenial, 
Cupid, with torch, bids a flame burn 
That to cold ashes will ne'er turn. 

Though it may sometimes like waning 
seem. 

Love that endures not forever. 
Merits no naming, for never 

Was such a passion of heaven born. 
When the fair Daphne of old fled. 
Fled from Apollo, whose heart bled 

Pierced by the archer with golden dart; 



THE REUNITED. 25 

When as a tree he beheld her, 
Not from his love he repelled her, 

But the god wept, while embracing her; 
'Neath the bark, felt the flesh quiver, 
Cursed her sire, god of the river, 

Peneus, whose power had transformed her. 

Called the tree wife ; and a green branch 
Bound to his lyre, that would soon launch 

Out on the breeze a sad melody. 
Singing of Daphne the fairest, 
Fairest of mortals, and rarest 

Love of the famed son of Jupiter. 

Daphne was loved by Apollo ; 

Though she loved not, he would follow 

"Wooing the maid unrelentingly; 
Loved her when changed to a bay tree; 
Surely, then, love must for aye be 

Lasting, when truly reciprocal. 



26 POEMS. 

So reads the myth of the heathen; 

If thus they thought, shall not we then 

Place upon love as high estimate ? 
Judge, then, whatever the change be, 
Love once implanted will still be, 

Still of the heart be inhabitant. 

But oh, how little such love burns, 
How for that blest day my soul yearns, 

Man to be free from love's counterfeit. 
War and all tumult shall then cease, 
Earth be a garden of sweet peace. 

On the brio;ht morn of millennium. 



27 



CHAPTER IV. 



THE REVOLUTION. 



As the tide's ebbing and flowing, 
So is the coming and going, 

Rising and falling of potentates. 
Thrones and dominions have perished, 
Only their names have been cherished, 

Saved from the waves of oblivion. 



28 POEMS. 

Nations, by civil commotion, 
Tost like the ships of the ocean, 

When the rude winds through the cordage 
howl, 
Outlive the storm, if a bold hand 
Graspeth the helm, and the whole band 

Prove to the ship of state, vigilant. 

But, if the helmsman, affrighted. 
When in the thick storm benighted. 

Yields to the sea god the shattered bark; 
Or, if like Trojan Mencetes, 
Timid, in even the safe seas. 

Let him be cast to the gaping waves. 

France, in the midst of corruption, 
Civil and moral destruction, 

Cries for redress from her slavery; 
Then is her mourning and sadness 
Changed to contention and madness, 

Shedding the blood of nobility. 



THE EEVOLUTION. 29 

Carnage -with riot is wedded; 
Monarch and courtier beheaded: 

Blood through the streets like a river flows. 
Wounded and bleeding and dying, 
With the dead bodies are lying 

Where they were left by their murderers. 

Like wild beasts, goaded to raging, 
Eave the French people, assuaging. 

In their mad strife after liberty, 
Wrongs of tyrannic oppression, 
Shedding for every transgression, 

Innocent blood, with the criminal. 

Jacobin hurls the Girondist 

Swift to his death; and the fondest. 

Dearest of friends are now enemies. 
Sparing not childhood, or grey hair, 
Grandson and grandsire are slain, where 

Eegal blood base earth has fertilized. 



30 POEMS. 

Beautiful women were sharing, 
Sharing the death, that the wearing 

Of the cursed crown might no longer be 
Through the whole breadth of the nation. 
Was such a bloody libation 

Due to the goddess of liberty? 

Josephine taketh her share too. 
And of the woe she was heir to — 

"Who would not pause ere he told it all ? 
But the Great Father is near her, 
And though the test be severer, 

Still will he strengthen her bearing it, 

As in her former distresses, 
While the braVe heroine presses 

Close to the feet of Divinity. 
Josephine's prayers now ascending; 
Legions of angels, attending, 

Come down from heaven to comfort her; 



THE REVOLUTION. 31 

And, in bright phalanx, defending. 
Guard her from dangers impending, 

Threat'ning to fall and o'erpower her: 
Bid her to still be brave hearted, 
Though from her dearest ones parted, , 

Giving her strength in calamity. 

Beauharnais, only a loyal 
Lover of freedom is, royal, 

Princely blood flows through the Viscount's 
veins ; 
Will he escape, since the keen eye 
Of the avenger has bid die 

All, save the utter rebellionist ? 

Josephine hears the sad message, 
Which is to her a dread presage. 

Omen of evil o'ershadowing, — 
Filling her mind with vague horror. 
Fears she each day that the morrow 

May leave her hearthstone companionless. 



32 



CHAPTER V 



THE CONVICTION. 



"When in the mind are prevailing 
Hatred, distrust and vile railing, 

Then, is the heart no fit dwelling place 
For the Great Spirit most holy; 
And it is weakness and folly, 

Hoping in God without charity. 



THE CONVICTION. 33 

Charity-; first of the graces ; 
He who his piety bases 

On a foundation less permanent. 
Finds all is naught, though he speaketh 
Tongues, and have faith; for God seeketh 

Such as In spirit will worship him. 

He that is innocent deemeth 
Every man good that so seemeth, 

Judging by self, the world's rectitude. 
He that is base, is distrustful, 
Thinking all are like him lustful. 

Judging the whole by one profligate. 

During the wild revolution, 

'Mid the black scenes of pollution, 

When all, who dared to own royal birth, 
Might view the axe which would slay them, 
See where the tyrants would lay them. 

When they no longer were fearing them. 



34 poteMS. 

Beauharnais trembled and feared not, 
From his determined course veered not, 

Knowing his heart sealed for liberty. 
Fondly believed the mad faction, 
Viewing his firmness in action, 

Still would respect his wise cautiousness. 

When he was summoned to meet them, 
Boldly, he hastened to greet them, 

Trusting his all to integrity. 
Spoke of their reckless abusing 
Power, that by prudently using. 

Might have made freedom their heritage. 

This, to the flame that was burning 
Li their fierce breasts, was like turning 

Oil in the midst of a raging fire ; 
Or, like an atom phosphoric. 
Freed from its latent caloric, 

Drop'd in the midst of an arsenal; 



THE CONVICTION. 35 

Bursting their souls, and exposing 
Fiend forms, that there were reposing; 

Scatt'ring the fragments of manliness. 
Tyrants dared doom to a prison 
One who had boldly arisen, 

Pointing a safe path to liberty. 

Doomed to a prison-house dreary, 
There to spend days and nights weary. 

As a forewarner that liberty 
Soon would be his, for 't was saying, 
"After a little delaying, 

Thou shalt be free with the sleepers cast."' 

Josephine, — how was her heart wrung! 
When it was told by a strange tongue, 

" Sire of thy darlings a pris'ner is ! " 
O'ercome with sorrow she cares not. 
Though she is doomed to the same lot, 

Heedless she enters her gloomy cell. 



36 POEMS. 

But "when alone, her swift thoughts flew 
Back to the husband, she well knew 

Soon would be launched to eternity. 
Hortense and Eugene, she missed them, 
Torn from them ere she had kissed them, 

Blessed them, and bid them remember her. 

Now comes a message ; how grateful ! 
Once more is broken the hateful, 

Cruel suspense she was suffering; 
Happier, actual sorrow. 
Than the dread feeling of horror. 

Hung between hoping and hopelessness. 

He is condemned ! — In the letter 
Some of his hair — what could better 

Serve as memento to Josephine ? 
O'er it she weeps, full well knowing 
How the dark stream in its flowing, 

Will with its bitter waves cover her. 



37 



CHAPTER VI. 



THE EXECUTION. 



As to the stroke of the woodman 
Yields the brave oak, so the good man 

Falls ; and as falling the forest tree 
Shaketh the valley and mountain, 
Filleth with ripples the fountain, 

So his death moveth the multitude. 



38 POEMS. 

While a man livcth, each failing 
Magnified is ; the prevailing 

Spirit of earth is base selfishness; 
But let a mortal in earth sleep, 
Enemies over his grave weep, 

Since he no longer may rival them. 

Many a sad soul has waded 
Through seas of trouble, when laded 

Deep with some burden most onerous; 
Could he have had but the kind word 
Spoken while here, that was soon heard 

After he crossed to the spirit land, 

Death might have come like a day-dream, 
Or, as sweet sleep, when a wild stream 

Lulls one to rest with its merry lay; 
And a hope glimmer have lighted 
Him through the valley benighted, 

Over the flood, to the resting place. 



THE EXECUTION. 39 

Hope, that the waves of time lightly 
Laying his mark, would more brightly 

Cause it to shine in the future time : 
That when his form was to dust turned, 
He might have what he so well earned, 

Earth, to remember his having lived. 

This was thy hope, Alexander, 
And while the rivers meander, 

And the winds shriek through the hollow air, 
Man shall not cease to remember 
Thee, as the friend and defender. 

Friend both of freedom and Josephine. 

Now comes the dread execution. 
But it brings this retribution, 

"Sweet 'tis to die for one's father-land." 
Bring to the altar the victim; 
Nor with the vile cords afflict him, 

He will not shrink to be sacrificed. 



40 POEMS. 

He has lain down on his rude bed, 

On the red block rests his doomed head, 

And his eyes ope' to death's mysteries. 
Views he before him the new land; 
And the bright crown at the right hand 

Of the adorable Majesty? 

Now the vile axe has descended, 
Soul from the body ascended 

Up to its first source, its origin. 
Time with the martyr has ended, 
Now with eternity blended. 

As it was first, to forever be. 

Little it matters when life ends 

To the just man, since all strife ends 

With the last breath, in the distant land, 
Home of the spirits made perfect 
All are as one, and the prospect 

Looks to the throne of the Prince of Peace. 



THE EXECUTION. 41 

It is a part of life's glory 

Learning of God; and the story- 
Only concludes with eternity; 

Let mind be freed from this earth clod, 

Then it may learn who the great God 
Is, that inhabits immensity. 

Shall not the soul that has wondered. 
Gazing on bright worlds unnumbered. 

Hung in the midst of the firmament, 
Guided by those they adore then 
Visit them all and explore them, 

Learn how the Father created them? 

Ne'er will be known to a mortal 

Till he shall pass through death's portal, 

What God reserves for those loving him. 
Know that the highest conception 
Falls far below the reflection 

Even of one of his attributes. 



42 



CHAPTER VII. 



THE WIDOW. 



Often the dealings of Heaven 
Seem in deep mystery hidden. 

Why should God take those we love the 
best? 
Takes them because we are making 
Idols of fleshj and forsaking 

Him, to whom only is worship due. 



THE WIDOW. 43 

There are those who may in part know, 
Some of the wild grief and heart woe 

Of one who truly a widow is; 
But only those who are drinking 
Now, or have drank, can be thinking 

Even of half the cup's bitterness. 

Oft have I watched a procession 
Led by a hearse, deep depression 

"Written on every countenance : 
Ghastly the faces, the clothing 
Darker than night ; but with loathing 

I have turned back from the mockery ; 

For I have seen there the pale face 
Proud of its paleness, with hale grace 

Striving to look most Madonna like; 
Thinking their black garb becoming. 
Is such a scene not benumbing, 

Chilling to hearts of humanity ? 



44 POEMS. 

I have seen those too who heedless, 
Heedless of show and the needless 

Pomp and parade of the funeral, 
Bury their dead in some lone grove. 
Where the buds bloom, and at eve rove 

Silently there to weep over them. 

Once, when the night winds were blowing, 
As, through a grave-yard was going, 

I heard there weeping and wailing sad. 
Silent with cautious steps stealing 
Near to the head-stone, saw kneeling, 

Kneeling a widow, a broken heart, 

Weeping her dead, that for long time 
Sleeping had been. Was the wrong mine 

That I prayed when earth should cover me, 
Some one might weep o'er the green sod 
Rich from my dust, and no mean clod 

Should it appear to those loving me ? 



THE WIDOW. 45 

Time comes to Josephine grief fraught, 
Mourning the death of her consort ; 

He is dead — she still a prisoner. 
Could but the walls of her prison 
Tell how her prayers have arisen, 

Prayers that from earth went up heavenward ; 

Or could the floor of her dark cell 
Number how many hot tears fell 

While she strove hard to be reconciled. 
They would not tell of grief feigning, 
But such a tale, as is paining 

One to be even the listener. 

But the great God has not left her, 
Though of her husband bereft her, 

Still he afflicteth not willingly. 
In this sore grief there are lurking 
Mercies benign; all is working 

For her good now, and for evermore. 



46 POEMS. 

All have tlieir dead; some are sleeping 
Where the mad sea-waves are leaping; 

Some where the yew tree and willows wave ; 
Ever remember to cherish 
Dead friends as living ; they perish 

Not — all will meet once more — grieve them 
not. 



47 



CHAPTER VIII 



THE RELEASE. 



Hemmed in by huge blocks of rough stone, 
Where, through the grate the fresh air blown 

Mingles with damp breath and loathsome- 
ness; 
There may the vigilant turnkey 
Prison the body, but still free, 

Free as the sea the immortal mind. 



48 POEMS. 

Ever the mind is in motion; 
Ranging the islands of ocean; 

Seeking the realms of the setting sun; 
Leaving the scenes of the present; 
Sporting where broods the gold pheasant, 

Or the gazelle roams the mountains o'er. 

Darting from thence, where the blue wave 
Teems with the seal, and white bears rave, 

And the whale spouts, 'mong those crystal 
hills. 
Icebergs, magnificent tow'ring, 
Where the fierce cold is o'erpow'ring 

Almost those northern inhabiters. 

Chains cannot bind thought ; 't is flying 
Swifter than light, and defying 

Limits, from earth up to heaven goes. 
Though in a prison the life breath 
Fails, still the blasting of pale death 

Harms not the reasoning, knowing part. 



THE RELEASE. 49 

Josephine's home, though a damp cell, 
Often was cheered by the strange spell 

Thrown o'er her mind by Euphemia's 
"Words, that years gone she had spoken: 
Josephine, now so heart broken. 

Finds herself trusting the sybil tale. 

Why should she not, since the real. 
Answered in form, the ideal 

Fortune marked out by the sorceress ? 
She did take heart while believing. 
Watched for the wings of relieving 

Angels, to bring to her liberty. 

When she saw foes were preparing 
Also for her to be sharing 

Fate of those dear but unfortunate, 
Felt not her courage to falter. 
Knowing that man may not alter 

What the Almighty predestinates. 



50 POEMS. 

When asked if thoughts of soon dying- 
Clouded her mind; her replying 

Filled every ear with astonishment. 
Answered she proudly while smiling, 
Smiling on those then reviling, 

"Know that I yet shall be Queen of France." 

Josephine was not alone there 
Prison bound ; but with another fair 

Woman who hopelessly looked for death; 
'Till one day through the rough grating 
Saw, at her prison door waiting, 

One who loved her as none other loved. 

Quickly she pens a short message, 
Telling her heart's darkest presage, 

Begging that he would her dungeon ope. 
From the close grate to the wide street, 
Down the note falls at her love's feet. 

Borne to the earth by a cabbage stalk. 



THE RELEASE. 51 

That note was read; and the wild fire 
Of the stern will, which will not tire 

Till the great end is accomplished, 
Burned in the eye of the reader; 
And the brave lover that freed her 

Who was his all, freed our Josephine. 

Now, the pure fresh air of heaven 
That by God freely was given, 

Freely is breathed by a nation free. 
Josephine now with her dear ones. 
Smoothly the current of time runs ; 

Josephine strives to bring others joy. 

Seems as she moves to strew flowers; 
And, on the mis'rable, showers 

That which she pined for in solitude, 
Love ; — and those who are oft near her. 
When she knows not, sometimes hear her 

Speaking the name Alexander. 



52 



CHAPTER IX 



EUGENE 



Into this world of temptation, 
Luring to foul dissipation, 

Where lurks the pit-fall insidious; 
Man must go, braving the contest. 
Buckling the shield to the broad breast, 

Warding the darts of the evil one. 



EUGENE. 63 

Varied the thought and the feeling, 
When from the youth time is stealing 

Studies and sports of his boyish days ; 
Bringing him cares and stern duties, 
Showing life's thorns, with its beauties. 

Bidding him up and be doing now. 

He who, in earliest boyhood. 

Sees his sire strive for the great good 

Of all his race, a philanthropist. 
When he stands up in the wide world. 
Stands as a man; and the flag furled, 

Furled at the father's death, floats once more. 

Look at the son of the outcast, 

See him go down the same track, fast 

Learning the lessons of wretchedness. 
Can a child wanton and careless. 
Profligate, reckless, and prayerless, 

Lay the foundation for usefulness ? 



54 POEMS. 

Train up a child in the right way, 
When he is old he will not stray- 
Far from the safe path of rectitude. 
It is the earliest teaching, 
That in the young heart is reaching 
Passions that easy are moulded then ; 

Giving mind bias, preparing 
Pleasures of life to be sharing. 

And life's woes bearing with manliness; 
That when the changes have ended, 
Angel, by angels attended, 

May find a blessed inheritance. 

Eugene, his sire Alexander, 
Patterned in brav'ry and candor, 

And his affections like Josephine's. 
Ever was kind and forgiving,- 
Cherishing always a living 

Principle, based on integrity. 



EUGENE. 55 

Who would ask monument higher, 
Or to more glory aspire, 

Than to bequeath the rich legacy 
Of a wise son to a nation? 
Who would ask longer probation 

Here, than to train up one's children well ? 

Ever did Eugene remember, ? 

With a respect the most tender. 

What his sage father had counselled him. 
That he might show this respecting, 
From Ms young mates was selecting 

Those who of all were most virtuous ; 

And with them, being united, 
Forming a knighthood, delighted 

In the high praise of their patron saint, 
Beauharnais — every young knight 
By his shade swearing to do right, — 

Bound by the oath of their filial love. 



56 POEMS. 

In the boudoir, a beholder 
Josephine stood, — her heart told her 

That on the son, the glad influence 
Of the sire's life had descended, 
And all his virtues were blended 

In the love pledge he had left to her. 

Covered with flowers, from the ceiling 
Seeming to smile on those kneeling 

Down by the altar, a picture hung; 
It was the form of tliat hero, 
Who, though by death was now laid low, 

Still was alive in their memories. 

Josephine, standing there weeping, 
Felt that his spirit was reaping 

Fast its reward from all suff'ering; 
As he beheld the affection 
Of the son, and the reflection 

Of his own soul, in the filial child. 



57 



CHAPTER X. 



THE NEW ERA. 



As, when with rage unrelenting, 
Cruel queen Juno, preventing 

Pious ^Eneas from Latium, 
Called on king ^olus, praying 
That he, his sceptre once swaying, 

Might bid the winds to the Tuscan sea. 



58 POEMS. 

And the storm-king from his high rock 
Whirling his spear-point, a huge shock 

Gave to the cave in the mountain's side, 
Cave, where the fierce winds are chain-bound, 
Where they, complaining in vain, sound, 

Filling the mountain with murmerings. 

At the command, as if rushing 
Formed in battalion, all gushing 

Out from their vent the mad whirlwinds 
came ; 
And on the deep salt sea dashing. 
Ploughed up great waves, that were lashing. 

Rolling themselves to the beaten shore. 

Neptune the god of the sea wave. 
He to whom great Jove alone gave 

Empire of water, and trident power, 
Heard the loud noise and commotion, 
Knew that the winds with the ocean 

Warred; and high over the highest wave. 



THE NEW ERA. 59 

Looked from the deep; and assuaging 
"Water's -wrath; stormy winds raging, 

Drove o'er the smooth wave his chariot; 
Giving his wild steeds the loose reins, 
Steeds with hoofs brazen, whose thick manes 

Golden, they bathed in their ocean course. 

So when the French revolution 
Brought to entire dissolution 

Law, in the wreck of the powerful; 
"When the throne fell and the altar, 
When the blood shedders did falter. 

Seeing France shorn of her dignity; 

And the French populace straying. 
Open to national preying, 

To the invasion of enemies, 
Like a flock wanting its keeper, 
Prey to the spoils of the reaper 

"Wolf, that blood-thirsty might follow them; 



60 POEMS. 

Bonaparte rose, and disorder 
Order became; like a warder 

He at his post stood and guarded o'er 
France, as he raised her from thick night 
Till she shone bright in the red light 

Shed by his Ccesar-like conquerings. 

And her wild wrath and commotion 
Calmed, as did Neptune the ocean ; 

And o'er France ruled as her Emperor; 
Giving just law, that observing 
Would be her welfare preserving, 

Make her a pattern to sister states. 

He raised the altar forsaken, 
And, with a firmness unshaken, 

Battled against infidelity; 
Throwing a charm o'er the nation, 
Forming a happy mutation 

From the dark scenes of the Jacobins. 



THE NEW ERA. 61 

Health and prosperity blended, 
Now the French nation attended, 

Ruled by Napoleon's craftiness ; 
No other kingdom or empire 
But he would crush, if thus higher 

He might his own and France's honor raise. 

And the whole nation, its praises, 
High and triumphantly raises, 

To the all powerful Sovereign; 
And in 'each province or hamlet. 
When old dame, peasant or lord met. 

All spake a word of the Conqueror. 

And all the people in concord. 
Mingled their voices, the one word 

Spoken by all but to eulogize. 
Was that man's name who had risen, 
As a vicegerent from heaven, 

Bonaparte, Bonaparte, Bonaparte. 



62 



CHAPTER XI. 



THE DEUTEROGAMIST. 



How can tlie memory blacken, 
How can the holy ties slacken 

That have bound hearts to each other once ? 
Is there naught sacred or binding, 
Worthy respecting or minding 

In all the vowing hymenial? 



THE DEUTEROGAMIST. 63 

Why should such vows through one's life long 
Firmly be kept, if 't is not wrong 

That they should end with ones leaving earth ? 
If the soul died; it might well be, 
That all the vows should be then free, 

Free to be cast out of memory. 

Though we are told that in heaven, 
They are not wed, nor are given, 

Given in marriage; as angels live, 
Still will not those who are dearest 
Here on the earth, seem the nearest 

"When we arrive at our better home ? 

If not so, why cheer the mourner, 
Some poor disheartened sojourner. 

Whom friends have left in this vale of tears ? 
Bid him prepare for the meeting; 
Hold himself ready for greeting 

Friendly forms over deep Jordan's stream. 



64 POEMS. 

In this life those who are twice wed, 
Oftimes are jealous of those dead, 

Feeling how firm a first love must be; 
When in another world, knowing 
Where their dear ones are bestowing 

All their best love, will they happy be ? 

Or will none meet up in heaven. 
Only those, who have here striven 

To be true, true to their early love ? 
Or, will all be so forgiving. 
That they can happy be living. 

Knowing themselves with their rivals there ? 

Or will there be no such scene there, 
Meeting of friends, but will all wear 

One form, like features and glory, all 
The same name, nature and fortune ; 
How then did Peter, the triune 

Know, that he saw on the mountain top ? 



THE DEUTEROGAMIST. 65 

Be as it may, I would rather 
See the pale angel. Death, gather 

Dearest friends into his garner, than 
See them tear off their dark dresses, 
Weaving among their bright tresses 

Orange blooms meet for the bridal scene. 

Long shall remember the shedding 
Of tears, I saw at a wedding. 

Tears that were shed by a widow bride; 
Methoiight a spirit was guiding, 
Guiding her thoughts and soft chiding. 

Haply 't was not so ; for who shall judge. 

Every day of our living 

We may see those who are giving, 

Giving their sanction to many loves; 
It may be right for the world to, 
Only for me it might not do j 

Mine may be scruples 7iot grounded well.. 



66 POEMS. 

And among those who are doing 
Thus, "we are forced to be viewing 

Josephine ; she weds again ; it is 
Bonaparte now who is leading 
Her to the shrine, and succeeding 

To the third love of our heroine. 

But she paid dear for the glory, 
As we shall see when the story 

Fully is told, and unravelled is 
All the well-knit web of life time. 
When we have rung out our last chime. 

Sung our last song for fair Josephine. 



67 



CHAPTER XII. 



THE CORONATION. 



What is a crown to its wearer? 
Only a sign that the bearer 

Bears with the jewel, the heavy load 
Of the whole nation's repining; 
And that with gold, is entwining 

Care, like a serpent form hideous^ 



68 POEMS. 

On the browj stealthy it presses, 
Fawning, its clammy caresses 

Fill the crowned head with a jealous fear. 
Crowns, though they oft fit too tightly, 
When they are jostled but lightly, 

Fall, and where then is the regal power? 

In all the great preparation, 
Due to the grand coronation 

Of the French Empress and Emperor, 
Nothing was spared, that would render 
Even the hardest heart tender 

To the impressions of loyalty. 

In the proud church of " 0^lr Lady,^^ 
Under a canopy shady, 

"Was a throne reared, and its drapery, 
Crimson dyed velvet was flooded 
With precious stones, and bestudded 

With bright gold, fresh from the artisan. 



THE CORONATION. 69 

Three hundred voices were raising 
Melody sacred, thus praising 

Him who had sent their deliverer ; 
And to the chanting, responded 
Bands, who in martial airs sounded 

Praise, to their most worthy sovereign. 

When music's echo had ended, 
Bonaparte, being attended 

By friends of rank and his holiness, 
Pius the Seventh, arises. 
Holding the Bible, apprises 

France that she now has an Emperor. 

Then, by the royal pledge swearing 
That he will ever be sharing 

National woe and prosperity. 
With his own right hand he raises 
The crown to his head, while praises 

Loud throusfh the aisles and arches rins:. 



70 POEMS. 

Josephine, dressed in the glory 
Of the fair Houri, that story 

Tells of, in realms of the Mussulmans, 
Clad in a robe of white satin, 
Mantle of crimson and ermine, 

Girdle of pure gold with diamonds set; 

Thus clad, and rev'rently kneeling. 
Token how deep she was feeling 

Weight of the burden, about to be 
Placed on her head, now accepted 
A crown, from one she expected 

Ever would own her his Empress Queen. 

And those who gazed on her beauty 
As she arose to her duty. 

Doubtless, now deemed her far happier 
Than when with William she wandered 
Martinique's shores, and there pondered, 

In her young heart, thoughts of coming life. 



THE COEONATION. 71 

" Coming life ! " how much of pleasure 
Is there embraced in the treasure 

Which the mind has in imagining? 
Build a high castle of thin air, 
Though it should fall, it will still wear, 

Part of its fancied magnificence. 

Happy is life, by well doing, 
Happy the mind, in thrice viewing 

Deeds that are looked at with honest pride. 
Happy the future ; increasing 
Happy the present; unceasing 

Happy the past is with memories. 

Pleasures we had in the last year, 
Thought of to-day, seem far more dear 

Than we supposed they were, at the time 
"We were enjoying; to-day will. 
When it forever is gone, still 

Brighter grow, as we remember it. 



72 



CHAPTER XIII 



THE AMBITIOUS ONE. 



BoNAPAETE, skillful in ruling, 
Wanted the skill for well schooling 

That good though dangerous principle 
Which in his breast was ascendent, 
Which made his powers all attendant 

To its will. He was ambition^s slave. 



THE AMBITIOUS ONE. 73 

He who his own spirit giiideth 
Stronger is, than he who 'bideth 

In a great city as conquerer. 
He who has no rule, is spoken 
Of as a city whose broken 

Walls are with vile weeds and grasses grown. 

Mars, the fierce god, to vain glory 
Led him through battle fields gory: 

How must his mind have in lonely hours, 
Thronged with a valley of dry bones ; 
And his ears filled with the deep groans, 

Groans he had heard 'neath his horse's tread ? 

When on the " lone isle " an outcast, 
Did not the whistling winds' blast 

Bring the dread shrieks to his memory, 
Heard on the dark field of battle. 
Shrieks that the wild din and rattle 

Of his artillery smothered not ? 



74 POEMS. 

Did not the rain drops at eve-tide, 
Seem like the tears of some girl bride 

Widowed, or those by some mother shed 
Over a husband or son brave, 
Hurried away to the still grave. 

Slain in the wars of Ambition'' s dupe? 

Did not the low murm'ring sea breeze, 
Breath of the wild rolling salt seas, 

Seem like the moans of the murdered one. 
Whose heart he crushed by unkindness. 
While his own soul was in blindness 

Leagued, to the fiend form that governed him ? 

France had become a great empire ; 
Brighter, still brighter the wild fire 

Burned in the breast of Napoleon. 
Could his pride suffer that ever 
She should be ruled by one never 

Born to him who had established her? 



THE AMBITIOUS ONE. 75 

He had no son, and the treasure 
He had heaped up gave no pleasure, 

Knowing if death came he left it all. 
Loudly his pride and ambition 
Called for a change of position, 

Change that might bring him a royal heir. 

Deeply was Josephine grieving, 
When, by her skill in perceiving, 

She saw how coldly the Emperor 
Was to her day by day growing; 
Bitter tears, frequently flowing. 

Made her cheek paler and thinner grow. 

Fate had forbidden her bearing 
Offspring, to him who was caring 

Nothing for love or for holiness, 
Could his fame not be augmented; 
Only one thing now prevented 

Joining the Cassars and Bonapartes. 



76 POEMS. 

Could his great mind to such folly 
Stoop, or a thought so unholj 

Cherish, as parting from Josephine ? 
Only can those whom Ambition 
Blindly has led to perdition, 

Tell how the siren devours the soul. 

What is Ambition? The moving 
Force of the mind, the reproving 

Spirit that breaks the world's lethargy. 
What the abuse ? It is losing 
Sway o'er the mind; and refusing 

Even to listen to reasoning. 

'T is a continual death weight 

Bound to the soul : to be called great. 

Constitutes then the whole happiness ; 
Down falls the heart's best affection; 
Truthfulness, honor, reflection. 

Cast to the wind are as chaff is. 



77 



CHAPTER XIV. 



THE RAY OF HOPE DARKENED. 



It is an old, but good saying, 
Worthy of carefully weighing, 

" Many a slip 'twixt the cup and lip." 
Many a flower at its blooming 
Promises fruit, when consuming 

Blast may be deep in its calix hid. 



78 POEMS. 

Josephine saw the clouds lower 
Round her, and knowing the power 

Daily she lost o'er the Emperor, 
Joyed, when her Hortense was mother, 
Giving Napoleon's brother 

Heir to his name and inheritance. 

For she was hoping, by giving 
To the child name of the living 

Emperor, he might pursuaded be 
To make the child his own lawful 
Heir, and by this means her awful 

Fate would most surely be warded off. 

And as that bud was unfolding, 
Bonaparte, in it beholding 

Traits of his own warlike character. 
Bade that the boy be respected, 
As the one France now expected 

Next to preside and rule over her. 



THE RAY OF HOPE DARKENED. 79 

France, with a glad exclamation, 
Welcomed the wise declaration, 

Honored the second Napoleon. 
Josephine, blessed by her grandchild, 
Happy, because a kind fate smiled. 

Looked on the world with untroubled eye. 

Man is a shadow that fleeth 
Ere one can say that he seeth; 

Trusting in princes is vanity. 
Death cuts us all to one bevel. 
Earth is the great human level. 

Nobles to dust turn like lowly born. 

Death saw the child, and an arrow 
Sped from his bow, for the narrow 

Grave claimed the form of the little one ; 
And the bright angels above him. 
Wanted him where they could love him, 

Not as an earth, but a heaven child. 



80 POEMS. 

Josephine deeply affected 

By what she had not expected 

So soon would come to the royal born, 
Wept not alone that he left her, 
But that grim death had bereft her 

In him, of all her remaining hope. 

Not that the crown should be taken 
Cared she, if love still unshaken 

Might be her own; but it grieved her sore. 
Thinking she who might be wearing 
Her crown, and with it be sharing 

Bonaparte's love, was an Austrian. 

With this dark prospect before her. 
Striving for aught to restore her 

To the respect of her despot lord; 
Fervently prayed him, while weeping, 
That he his holy vow keeping, 

Miffht make her Eugene his lawful heir. 



THE RAY OF HOPE DARKENED. 81 

But in his mind there now floated 
Beaatiful vision, he gloated 

On in his dreams ; should there never be 
Really, realization 
Of all his anticipation, 

Lover-like had of the Csesar born? 

YeSj there must be ; but he told her 
Not yet how cheap he had sold her 

Who had so long been his ruling star. 
Feigned to her that he accepted 
Eugene as heir; this protected 

Her from all feelings of bitterness. 

But the time came when she well knew 
That even she had become due 

To the great gamester that Bonaparte 
Played with : for losing the last stake 
He had naught left that he could take 

But her, to give to Ambition's hand. 



82 



CHAPTER XY. 



THE DIVORCE. 



Dead, while yet living, for surely 
It is not life to demurely 

Sit down a being disconsolate; 
Nor is it death; for in dying, 
Though to a worse fate were flying. 

We might be free from our present ills. 



THE DIVOECE. 83 

Woman, hast thou not a nearer 
Friend than a brother, and dearer 

To thy own soul than thy being is ? 
In whom are all thy best joys found ? 
How to thy ear would such words sound 

From him, as Josephine listened to ? 

Bonaparte loved her (?) Oh ! heaven ! 
Why was the power ever given. 

Given to him over Josephine ? 
Still he declared he would love her 
Ever the same, nor above her 

Prize his young beautiful Austrian. 

Bonaparte loved her, but better 
Loved his own fame ; to unfetter 

Her from his soul, and thus higher rise. 
Though it might cost him the heart-ache, 
Fame, with its wreath, would in part make 

Even that wrong right, the tempter said. 



84 POEMS. 

Therefore he told her no longer 
Could they be bound by aught stronger 

Than by the ties that bound other friends. 
She must depart; for Maria 
Waited for her ; his desire 

Was that she ever might happy live. 

Josephine, hearing her doom told, 

Fell to the floor, as though death's cold 

Hand had deprived her of consciousness; 
Fell, like the wounded dove "breathing 
Out life 'mong the stars," when receiving 

Shaft from the bow of Eurytion. 

As in the dove's breast the arrow 
Fell to the ground, so her sorrow 

Fixed in her soul was, she bore it down 
In the wound, even to death's door, 
Being there, bearing it no more 

Left the dart, laid at the archer's feet. 



THE DIVORCE. 85 

In her deep sorrow she ever 
Bonaparte loved, and would never 

Call him unkind; but was deeming that 
It was not him who commanded; 
But it was France who demanded 

That she should make the great sacrifice. 

But in her own mind was knowing 
That she would ne'er have been going 

Far from her throne and the Emperor, 
Had not Napoleon trusted 
By it, to gain what he lusted 

For, full swaj over a conquered world. 

She did not curse as did Dido, 

(When she, forewarned that her shadow 

Should not in Hades be reconciled : 
That, from the grim world appearing. 
Should her pale ghost oft' be nearing 

Him who had coldly forsaken her;) 



86 POEMS. 

But, witli the gentlest submission, 
Yielded her royal position; 

Gave to Maria Louisa all. 
Like a good child whom its mother 
Careful, has taught how to smother 

Every evil propensity. 

Josephine thought when this blow came 
Deeply again of the old dame, 

Martinique's sybil, Eupheraia; 
Her faith had now become stronger 
In the tale told, and no longer 

Doubted that destiny governed her. 



87 



CHAPTER XVI. 



MALMAISON AND NAVAREE. 



Josephine from the French court sent, 
To that loved mansion alone went, 

Where, as the bride of Napoleon, 
Twelve years before she had gladly 
Entered. What contrast! now sadly. 

More than a widow, she enters there. 



88 POEMS. 

Bonaparte's room, as he left it 
Still must remain; it was not fit 

(So she deemed) that she should alter it; 
There lay his chart, books, and clothing; 
Here was her rest, when with loathing, 

She would leave earth, to weep over love. 

Several months of unbroken 
Sorrow she passed here ; each token 

That could remind of the Emperor, 
Opened anew the deep heart-wound; 
Too much of sorrow she here found, 

So sought Navarre and its solitude. 

Desolate all its fair grounds lay, 
As a sad mark of that dark day 

France saw — the dread Revolution. 
Ev'rything sere and neglected. 
Type of her heart so dejected. 

Could she but love such a resting place? 



MALMAISON AND NAVAREE. 89 

Here she was daily pursuing 
Means to efface the sad ruin 

Marks that were ev'ry where round her; 
But, the proud hopes of her fond heart 
Ruined, would no more to life start, 

Or as the broken down gardens thrive. 

Here, at Navarre, come the tidings 
That to fair Josephine's heart brings 

Joy, with its mingling of bitterness. 
Lo ! there is born a Prince royal, 
Loud cries each subject most loyal; 

Echo the message reverberates. 

Josephine's soul thrills with pleasure, 
For she well knows beyond measure 

Now is the joy of Napoleon; 
After the pleasure-thrill, sadness 
Comes, when she thinks to what madness 

That child has driven great Bonaparte. 



90 POEMS. 

And how that madness brought anguish, 
Anguish to her, she must languish. 

Pine for the love that was given now 
To that boy's Austrian mother; 
Would to the gods she could smother 

Memories sad of her wretchedness. 

Josephine deemed it a pleasure 
Even to look on the treasure, 

Which had cost her such a sacrifice. 
Had not her heart-strings been broken ? 
Troubles too great to be spoken 

She bore — Maria, a royal babe. 

Few were the pangs of the mother, 
Many the pangs of the other 

Suflf'rer : Maria Louisa knew 
Naught of the anguish of soul woes, 
How they surpassed even birth throes : 

All was too well known to Josephine. 



MALMAISON AND NAVARRE. 91 

Bonaparte brought her the young child; 
When she beheld him, she wept, — smiled, 

Smiled through a torrent of falling tears ; 
As oft in nature the sun bright 
Looks through a cloud, and its warm light 

Shines on of rain drops a myriad. 

Close to her bosom she presses 
Bonaparte's child, and caresses 

The son, as she oft had his royal sire; 
Seeing the father's loved image. 
Pays to the child the same homage 

Carthage's queen did to Ascanius. 

Could not such heartfelt devotion 
Waken a tender emotion 

In the cold heart of Napoleon? 
He so well skilled in excusing 
Wrongs, might have felt an accusing 

Spirit, but quick he would smother it. 



92 



CHAPTER XYII. 



THE FALLEN STAE. 



There are, wlio tell us the stars guide 
All of us over the time tide, 

Down to the gulf of oblivion. 
There are, who trust to the fable. 
Deeming that He who was able 

To make stars, might make them ominous. 



THE FALLEN STAE. 93 

These, watch the signs of the burning 
Orlbs of still night, and are learning 

Thus, or pretend they learn, augury. 
If the stars, changing positions 
Alter the winds, dispositions 

Human as well may be changed by stars. 

It is a mind superstitious. 

That would deem one star propitious, 

While in the same constellation was, 
'Neath the same cloud by chance hiding. 
In the same blue home abiding, 

Other stars, called most unfortunate. 

Born of a marvellous nation, 
In land of wild incantation. 

Nature made Josephine marvellous ; 
Even her mind had a blending 
Of traits, betraying strong tending 

To a belief in Astrology. 



94 POEMS. 

This, slie was often betraying 
When at her vitals were preying 

Sorrows, as once the fierce vultures preyed 
On his, who brought down from heaven 
Fire, that its power might be given 

To men, as to gods — old Prometheus. 

When came the last and worse trial. 
When the wrath angel's last vial 

On her was poured ; when proud Bonaparte 
Left her, she said 'twas her reigning 
Star that ruled France, at its waning 

He would be thrown from his eminence. 

Truly she said ; if no guiding 
Star ruled the fates, the abiding. 

Provident justice of Deity 
Could not forever afflict her; 
But from her foes would protect her. 

Bring down the high hands that troubled her. 



THE FALLEN STAE. 95 

Bonaparte's warriors no longer 
Were the invincible, stronger 

Arms had repeatedly vanquished them ; 
And his throne shook like the quaking 
Of earth, and the nations were waking 

Up to the conqueror's overthrow. 

Long had they lain down supinely 
In the dust; God had divinely 

Given them strength ; they would use it now ; 
Bonaparte no more should wander 
With his proud legions, to squander 

Happiness, life-blood and liberty. 

Bonaparte's glory was fading; 
Still he was hoping by wading 

Through seas of blood, earth might tremble, as 
In the wind, aspen leaves quiver. 
When he should pour as a river. 

Armies upon them, to devastate. 



96 POEMS. 

Useless the strife ; it was striving 
'Gainst the old "world, now reviving 

From a deep, long, and refreshing sleep, 
In all its youthfulness waking; 
From its grey locks the world shaking 

Age, warred as ancient Entellus, once 

When he was dared to the contest, 
Matched by young Dares and close pressed 

By thick blows, conscious worth fired his 
soul ; 
As the thick showers on the house-top 
Fell his strokes, quickly dealt, — no stop 

Till o'er the plain he brave Dares drove. 

So the world, armed as with Cestus, 
Fell on the Corsican; he thus 

Vanquished was, and like young Dares gave 
Up the fierce contest, and yielding 
To the gods, sought for the shielding 

Refuge, which friendly hearts ofi"ered him. 



97 



CHAPTER XVIII. 



A woman's love. 



Bonaparte's bright days of glory 
Gone, seem to him like a story 

When it is told; a dark vision is 
All that remains ; a Chimera 
Soon to devour now draws nearer; 

He, whom the nations feared, fearful is. 

7 



98 POEMS. 

And it comes — Bonaparte 's banished ! 
Seeing liis earth hopes have vanished 

Has he aught now that can comfort him? 
Can that son, born to be cage-bound 
Like a wild beast, heal the sore wound 

Made in the Monarch's ambitious soul? 

Bonaparte 's stripped of his power — 
Wrenched from his grasp in an hour, 

Is that for which he had labored years. 
Island of Elba his home now ; 
She who should soothe his care-worn brow, 

Ease his pained heart, has deserted him^ 

Gone to the home of her father. 
Born of a King, she would rather 

Not be deprived of a royal home. 
Bonaparte's crown she respected: 
Crownless, must she be expected 

Now in his downfall to cherish him? 



A woman's love. 99 

Who is it when blight has coldly 
Fixed on man's name, that will boldly 

Bleach the dark stains of tongues pestilent; 
Solving the riddle, and clearing 
All doubts away, that appearing 

Pure and still noble, the loved may be? 

'T is the true wife ; she will ever 
Bless whom earth curses, and never 

Cease to hide faults from the idle gaze. 
Never desert; but will follow 
Where famine stalks with its hollow 

Cheek; and for love build its sepulchre. 

Is there no mortal whose tender 
Heart some assistance may render 

To the unfortunate Bonaparte ? 
Some one to cheer the lone outcast, 
Wiping the marks of the dread past, 

Quite from the Hero's pressed memory? 



100 POEMS. 

Love with its halo might lighten 
Some of his cares ; his hopes brighten ; 

Bonaparte, even at Elba might, 
Being loved, conquer the yearning 
Spirit that in him was burning. 

Burning to vanquish his vanquishers. 

Yes there is one, (though Maria, 
Has in her breast no desire 

Now to commune with the Emperor), 
Whose heart would fill full of gladness. 
Could she cheer Bonaparte's sadness, 

Josejjhine, Josephine, Josephine. 

He whom she loved was afflicted; 
With her star, (as she predicted,) 

Had waned the fame of Napoleon : 
Now she would fly to the outcast; 
Freely forgive him the wrongs past, 

Which had made her such a suJGferer. 



A woman's loye. 101 

Could he refuse her the blessing 

Of his now care-wreathed brow pressing, 

Since there was none, save, to sympathize ? 
She would fly over the ocean. 
She might perchance the commotion 

Soothe, in the breast of the troubled one. 

Even this, which she had cherished 
As her last hope, had now perished: 

No more the goddess Hygeia 
O'er her health watched, pale disease came 
Sowing its seeds in her frail frame, 

Destined to soon let the spirit free. 



102 



CHAPTER XIX. 



DEATH 



What is death? Is it a dreamless 
Sleep? And the grave, is it gleamless? 

Is there no ray of hope piercing it ? 
What is death? Is it but losing 
Forms we here wore, and then choosing 

Other forms, demon or angel like? 



DEATH. 103 

What is death? Utter destruction 
Of this strange human construction, 

And the soul, even more strangely formed ? 
Is the grave only a flow'r bed, 
Nourished by dust of those long dead; 

Will that dust never immortal rise ? 

Death is like sleep, one awaking 
Always the same form is taking 

That he bore, ere he was slumbering. 
Only refreshed, and the death sleep 
Has the same waking, 'tis then meet 

That we prepare for our longest sleep. 

When we awake, at the sounding 
Of the last trump, the smTOunding 

Clods of the valley shall yield their dead, 
Many a turf of the hill-side, 
Many a wave of the blue tide 

Presses the dust of humanity. 



104 POEMS. 

He that was holy will still be 
Holy; the filthy still filthy; 

Only changed as to mortality. 
Bone will to bone be united; 
Since out of chaos benighted, 

Matter came, ne'er was an atom lost. 

All must die, none are too youthful. 
None too old, wayward or truthful, 

Evil and good, young and old must die. 
Death fears not summer's hot breezes ; 
Winter's cold blast never freezes, 

Darkness and night are no barrier. 

At noon the pestilence stalketh 
Through the proud city and walketh 

Shapeless among the high mountain homes 
Death enters cottage or palace. 
Bearing in each hand a chalice 

Poisoned, to press to his victim's lips. 



DEATH. 105 

Josephine folded her pale hands, 
While the death angel the life bands 

Broke, which were binding her spirit in. 
Upward it flew to the regions, 
Where, with the sanctified legions, 

She might be crowned through eternity. 

Down went the star in its beauty: 
Latest life care and last duty 

Now was completed, the sorrow clouds 
Crossing the star, left it shining. 
And as it sank, its declining 

Glories were spread o'er the universe. 

Furled were the sails in port heaven, 
Anchored at last, though oft driven 

By the fierce winds of adversity. 
Yielded the ship to its maker : 
Jordan had rolled the last breaker 

That would dash Josephine's shattered bark. 



106 POEMS. 

Heaven, the blest land of no night : 
Those who dwell there need no sunlight, 

Nor the pale moon, or the twinkling stars. 
He who from nothing a world brought, 
Hung it in space, to revolve taught. 

Lights his own throne with his glory beams. 

Ending life's fitful commotion. 
May I be worthy a portion 

In that eternal inheritance; 
Even as servant, attending 
One of the throng who are bending 

Down at the throne of the Holy One. 



THE LOVE OF THE HOUSEHOLD. 



109 



THE LOVE OE THE HOUSEHOLD. 



CHAPTER I. 



Where the bright morning 
Sun, in its rising 
From its east chamber, 
Gildeth the mountains. 
On whose pale summits 
Snow-drifts are lying, 
On whose rough bosoms 
Forests are growing; 



110 POEMS. 

Where in the valley 
Rushes the river; 
And the buds bursting, 
Change into flowers, 
Filling with sweetness, 
All the air 'round them; 
Where the birds warble 
Songs to their maker. 
Songs full of pathos. 
And their breasts quiver, 
Like the soft lute-string 
Struck by the skillful 
Hand of the artist; 
Where the lambs, roving, 
Skipping and playing. 
Close to their mothers, 
Seem to be happy, 
There is a cottage ; 
And the fresh roses. 
Of a June morning, 



THE LOVE OF THE HOUSEHOLD. Ill 

Cover the window, 
"Window that westward, 
Looks to the mountains ; 
And the tall elm-trees, 
At the four corners, 
Throw their deep shadows 
Over the low roof; 
And the moss, growing 
On the brown wood-work. 
Covers with freckles. 
Here in the evening, 
Ere the moon coming, 
Throws her pale splendor 
On the blue lakelet; 
Ere the first star-beam 
Dares to be shining 
In the broad heavens 
After the sunset; 
While there still lingers 
'Round the high mountains, 



112 POEMS. 

Some of the glory 
Of the bright day king; 
And all the clouds are 
Tinged with the purple, 
And the deep crimson 
Of the sun's setting; 
When the light golden 
Seems to be fading 
Into the azure, 
Then from the pasture. 
Where they the day long, 
Happy have wandered 
Cropping the herbage. 
Drinking the water 
Clear as the crystal. 
Come the cows homeward; 
And at the barnyard 
Meeting the milkers, 
Fill the pails brimming. 
But when the clouds fade, 



THE LOVE OF THE HOUSEHOLD. 113 

Losing their bright glow, 
Growing more sombre, 
Float in the star light; 
And on the gray rock, 
Down by the meadow, 
Whipporwills singing 
Songs of the night time. 
Make one feel gloomy; 
Then in the cottage. 
In the old arm-chair, 
Sits the good farmer 
Reading the story 
Of the blest infant 
Born in a manger. 
By him his good dame 
Sits with her knitting; 
And the granddaughter, 
" Love of the Household,^^ 
Stands by the arm-chair,. 
Stroking the grey locks. 



114 POEMS. 

Of her grandfather; 
Now and then looking 
At the old time-piece, 
That in the corner 
Fifty years standing 
Never has failed them, 
Giving its warning, 
'^ Time fast was flying," 
As it were bidding 
Them to be ready. 
For the last summons. 
Now her eyes wand'ring, 
Fall on a picture, 
On the wall hanging; 
Though it is dingy. 
Still she discovers 
There a fair maiden 
Seated beside one. 
Handsome and manly; 
And her own bosom 



THE LOVE OF THE HOUSEHOLD. 115 

Beating so wildly, 
Tells but too plainly, 
She has a lover. 
But to the old clock 
Sounding its eighth chime, 
All eyes are turning, 
For the retiring 
Hour is approaching; 
And the whole household 
Kneel down together, 
While the old farmer 
Prays to the Father; 
But the fair maiden, 
Though she was kneeling. 
Heard not a word said, 
But when arising. 
Lighting her candle, 
Whispers a good night, 
Hies to her chamber; 
But not to slumber, 



116 POEMS. 

Silently listens, 
Listens till certain 
Both her grandparents 
Soundly are sleeping. 
Then like a fairy 
Kuns to her mirror, 
Curling her dark locks, 
That like a shower 
Fall on a bosom 
Whiter than snow is. 
Holding the candle 
Nearer the clear glass 
In its antique frame, 
What does she see there ? 
Is it a picture ? 
Never was living 
Beauty so perfect. 
From those eyes flashing, 
Queenly expression; 
And the brow pure and 



THE LOVE OP THE HOUSEHOLD. 117 

Fair as the lily; 

While on her cheek, bloom 

Roses of health-glow. 

Is it a wonder 

If a faint smile played 

Round those sweet lips, where 

Kisses would soon be 

Lavished profusely? 

Back to the parlor, 

Now she returning, 

Looks at the old clock, 

Counting the moments 

Ere she may greet him, 

Who the last evening, 

As they were strolling 

Down by the lake side, 

Whispered his love words, 

Gently beseeching. 

That she might answer. 

If a like passion 



118 POEMS. 

Burned in her bosom ; 
But she had left him, 
Answering nothing, 
When she was longing. 
Longing to tell him 
How she had loved him, 
Hoping and fearing. 
But the time passes, 
When he had told her 
He should he with her; 
And the fair maiden 
Sighs, and a tear starts : 
Had he forsaken. 
Who the last evening 
Made her so happy ? 
Then she remembered 
How, when he left her, 
Pale was his forehead. 
And his hand trembled, 
While he was pressing 



THE LOVE OP THE HOUSEHOLD. 119 

Hers, that she coldly 
Drew from his clasping. 
What was the reason 
That he should tarry? 
Was he then mourning, 
Thinking her heartless ? 
Or was he scorning, 
Seeking some other 
Who would not trifle 
With his devotion ? 
Had she but told him. 
When he was pleading. 
Half her heart's worship. 
He had been richer, 
She none the poorer. 
Far le^ unhappy. 
Now she will listen, 
He may be crossing 
Over the stone bridge. 
And she may hear him, 



120 POEMS. 



Hear his quick footfall, 
And must stop weeping, 
Lest he should see her, 
And thus discover 
How she was loving; 
Yet was half hoping, 
There might one tear-drop 
Hang on her lashes. 
So he might ask her 
Had she been weeping? 
Hark ! he is coming • 
That is his low tap, 
Heard on the casement. 
Lifts up the door latch 
Slowly and gently, 
Lest that grandmother 
Should be awakened. 
Harold has entered, 
Smiling but sadly, 
Welcoming Mary — 



THE LOVE OF THE HOUSEHOLD. 121 

" Love of the Household.'^ 
Takes the great arm-chair 
Left by the farmer, 
But the low cricket, 
Standing beside it, 
Where the fair Mary 

Would have been seated, 

Careless he moveth . 

Into the corner. 

Then begins chatting 

Over the gossip 

Of the whole village, 

Tells of some sisters, 

Over the mountains, 

Lovers of nature, 

Who have invited 

Him on the morrow. 

With them to ramble. 

Where there are growing 

Wonderful flowers, 



122 POEMS. 



And to the ledges 
"Where the red tourmaline 
Is in abundance, 
And the green beryl, 
Felspar and mica, 
Quartz and the garnet, 
Yield to the student 
Plentiful harvest. 
Mary was silent. 
What was the matter ? 
Had he forgotten. 
What the last evening 
Was his whole story ? 
No. He remembered 
More — that she coldly 
Answered him nothing; 
And when they parted, 
Heartlessly left him 
Without a token 
Of her affection. 



THE LOVE OF THE HOUSEHOLD. 123 

Still he is chatting, 
But not a word says 
That she may answer; 
And the big tears start. 
Does he observe them? 
Now he is talking 
With the white kitten, 
Whom its fair mistress 
Sees is her rival. 
On his knee sitting, 
Quietly purring. 
Now he arises, 
Home must be going, 
That on the morrow. 
He may with vigor 
Ramble the mountains ; 
He does not linger 
Long at the doorway; 
Does not ask Mary 



124 POEMS. 



If in the moonlight 
She will go with him 
Far as the stone bridge : 
Leaves her abruptly, 
With a faint " good night," 
Not the sweet " good bye" 
That he was wont to 
Speak as he kissed her. 
Now the door closes. 
Wretched is Mary; 
Let her remember 
Harold was last night. 
So is he now too. 
Did she but know it, 
As he stands looking 
In through the window 
Watching each motion. 
Hoping the lesson 
Will prove to Mary 



THE LOVE OP THE HOUSEHOLD. 125 

That in flirtations, 
Oft the beginner, 
Finds that the victim 
Also wears armor. 



126 



CHAPTER II. 



Feom the tall elm trees 
Blue birds sweet singing, 
And the tame red breast 
On the old gate post 
Cheruping, warbling; 
And the swift swallow 
Twittering, glancing, 
Chanticleer loud his 



THE LOVE OF THE HOUSEHOLD. 127 

Clarion sounding, 
Make a full chorus, 
Waken the household. 
And first arising, 
Mary commences 
Breakfast preparing: 
When it is ready. 
Calls her grandparents ', 
And they together, 
While the sun rises, 
Share in the bounty 
Which the Great Giver 
Has on them lavished. 
And the meal ended, 
Grandfather goeth 
Out to his labor. 
Turning the furrow 
Smoothly and even. 
That on the morrow 
He may trust earth with 



128 POEMS. 

Grains of gold seed corn, 
Hoping a harvest. 
Mary the dishes 
Quietly washes, 
And this completed 
Goes to the churning; 
While the grandmother 
Works at the distaff, 
Watching her Mary, 
Whom she sees striving 
Hard to be happy, 
Now and then singing 
Parts of old ballads ; 
Then silent gazing 
Out at the window 
Noticing nothing. 
Now the good granddame 
Breaks the long silence. 
Calls to her Mary, 
" Luve of the Household," 



THE LOVE OP THE HOUSEHOLD. 129 

Saying, " come Mary, 

Sit thee down by me, 

For I would tell thee. 

Tell thee a story. 

Let not the blushes 

Come to thy fair cheek, 

While I shall let thee 

Know that I heard thee 

Talking the last night, 

With thine own spirit. 

I was not sleeping 

When thy guest entered; 

Nay, do not weep, lovej 

I am not chiding; 

It is well for thee 

That thy young heart should 

Learn to be loving. 

But, gentle Mary, 

Thou hast not learned yet 

All the heart's workings; 



130 POEMS. 

And thy grandmotvier, 
Though an old woman, 
Has not forgotten 
Days of her girlhood. 
Mary, I'll show thee 
What love's effects are 
On hearts as timid, 
Trusting as thine is; 
Deeply implanted, 
Part of the nature, 
Ever enduring, 
And if it crushed is, 
Crushes all with it; 
For in the heart's core 
Lies the wound deepest; 
There it will rankle. 
Like a thorn piercing; 
Fester, embitter 
All the life's current; 
And the cheek pale grows, 



THE LOYE OP THE HOUSEHOLD. 131 

As by sharp famine, 

Till the soul tired, 

Bursts its enclosure; 

And all around ask, 

'What was the death blow?' 

But none can answer: 

Deepest love never 

Utters the story, 

But with its secret 

Hid in the darkness 

Of its own prison, 

Flies from this earth scene. 

Not so a man loves, 

Though he may never 

Banish entirely 

Dreams of his first love ; 

But in the tumult 

Of the world's moving, 

Keeps his mind distant 

From his own feelings. 



132 POEMS. 

Only at twilight, 
Or in still evening, 
When he is lonely. 
Or hears a voice sound 
Like the loved lost one. 
That a tear gushes 
Up to his eye lidsj 
Then his mind wanders 
Back to the old scenes, 
But he quick rallys, 
Lets some wild fury 
Seize on his heart-strings. 
Man may grow desperate. 
Sullen and heartless. 
But rarely dies, by 
Being neglected. 
Many a stern man. 
Cold and dejected. 
Selfish appearing. 
Has in his bosom, 



THE LOVE OF THE HOUSEHOLD. 133 

Framed and hung up there, 
Pictures of beauty; 
And, where the rose bloomed, 
Still there remaineth 
Some of its fragrance. 
Look at the picture 
On the wall, Mary; 
There is the artist. 
Even the painter, 
Skill of whose pencil 
"Wrought the fair picture, 
"Wrought his own form there; 
"With his the maiden's. 
Oh! I remember, 
When in their beauty. 
They have together 
Roamed yonder mountains. 
Gathering flowers. 
And the bright berries. 
Sometimes I noticed. 



134 POEMS. 

When from their rambles 
They had returned home, 
Home to the cottage, 
Mary coquettish, 
(Her name was Mary,) 
Strove to seem heartless. 
I could see "Walter's 
Brow was o'ershadowed. 
And that the love-light 
Fled from his dark eye; 
But when the smile came 
Back to our Mary, 
He would be happy. 
Thus it was often; 
And I was chiding. 
Saying, 'not so child, 
Not so my daughter.' 
But she replying. 
Said, ' why he loves me. 
Let me torment him; 



THE LOVE OF THE HOUSEHOLD. 135 

I am good sometimes, 
Shall be good always, 
When I am older.' 
But in the autumn 
When the corn ripened, 
And the fruit mellow, 
Asked to be gathered; 
When the first frost tinge, 
On the bleak mountains. 
Had turned the leaves pale, 
Crimson and yellow; 
When through the forest, 
Happy the huntsman 
Followed the red fox. 
Season of sporting, 
Walter was absent. 
Missed at our fireside. 
Missed in the evening. 
When at the husking 
All the young people 



136 POEMS. 

Joyful assembled. 
Still was our Mary 
Blithsome and happy, 
Eomped "with the peasants, 
Sought for the ' red ears; ' 
And when the lasses 
Asked; where was Walter, 
Said she knew nothing, 
And was less caring, 
Hoped he was happy, 
Happy as she was ; 
But when no eye saw 
Only her mother's, 
Then was the gloom cloud 
Over her brow cast, 
And the salt tear fell 
When she was sleeping, 
And the deep sigh came 
Up from her bosom. 
Many pale moons passed, 



THE LOVE OP THE HOUSEHOLD. 137 

And the snow flakes fell, 
And the broad stream was 
Bound by an ice bridge; 
Then Mary sought him, 
Asked his forgivness. 
Begged he would treat her 
No more so coldly. 
Once more receive her 
Back to his love trust. 
And he received her; 
(At least he said so) 
But he remembered. 
How once his heart bled. 
And one by watching, 
Might see there lurking 
Thoughts of revenging. 
When spring once more came, 
"We were preparing 
Here at the cottage, 
For the approaching 



138 POEMS. 

Wedding of Mary. 
Ev'rytliing pleasant, 
Hearts all in concord, 
Walter and Mary 
Seemed to be striving, 
Each that the other 
Might be made happy. 
But "when the day came 
Fixed for the nuptials, 
Walter appeared not. 
And when the priest came 
That he might bless them, 
Mary as dead lay ; 
And all the night long, 
Here on my bosom, 
Praying, I watched her; 
But when the morning 
Light fell upon her, 
She to her duties 
Went uncomplaining; 



THE LOVE OF THE HOUSEHOLD. 139 

But all her joys fled, 
Only smiled once more, 
When she received you, 
Mary, the first time 
Into her pale arms. 
Smiling she left us. 
Walter's revenging, 
Though it did murder 
Our only daughter. 
Left us not childless ; 
For since then, Mary, 
Hast thou been made ' The 
Love of the Household J 
Dost thou remember, 
That a tall stranger, 
Not many years gone 
Came to our cottage ? 
That was thy father. 
He for forgiveness 
Came, and we gave it; 



140 POEMS. 

For I saw written 
On his pale features, 
That in his heart was 
Reared a green grave mound. 
Now a far distant 
Land is his last home ; 
For he is sleeping." 



141 



CHAPTER III. 



When the tale ended, 
Mary was weeping, 
For she had learned now. 
What had before been 
Hid from her kenning. 
Oft had she questioned. 
Who were her parents? 
And the reply was 



142 POEMS. 

From her grandmother, 
Always the same -words, 
" Those who would love thee 
Not more than we do." 
Now, she no longer 
Wondered, they told not. 
For it had grieved her. 
Learning the story, 
Sad, yet so life like, 
Full of the breaking 
Of the young, trusting 
Heart of her mother: 

Yet, she saw something 
Therein, which argued 

That all the sorrow 

Might have been warded, 

Had not that mother 

Woke in her lover. 

Spirit revenging. 

And now her own breast 



THE LOVE OP THE HOUSEHOLD. 143 

Filled was with chiding: 
Had she not trifled 
With the affections 
Of one she trusted? 
Might not a fury 
Now be at work there ? 
Could she not fall too ? 
Fall as her mother? 
Well might she shudder. 
Up to her chamber 
Mary then hastened, 
And at her bed side 
Humbly she kneeled down, 
Asking direction, 
Asking the help of 
"Him who is mighty," 
Trusting her welfare 
With the All Careful. 
And when she rose up. 
Strength had been gathered. 



144 POEMS. 

And she determined 
Ere the night dews fell, 
That she would conquer 
All the like spirit, 
Spirit of trifling, 
She might inherit 
From her lost mother. 
Then comes a sad thought. 
Where now is Harold ? 
Over the mountains. 
With the fair sisters ? 
Has he been thinking. 
Once while he sported, 
Thinking of Mary ? 
And something whispers : 
" Always is thinking. 
Never forgetting." 

What was it whispered ? 
***** 

After the sun turned 



THE LOVE OP THE HOUSEHOLD. 145 

From the high noon goal, 
Eolling down westward, 
Stretched to the north, lay- 
Piles of clouds fleecy, 
One from another 
Rising like billows 
Covered with white foam^ 
But at their bases 
Black and unbroken ; 
And from the mountains 
Rose a steam upward, 
Earth to the clouds sent 
Yapors sulphuric, 
That soon returning 
Would wake the echoes. 
Now 'mong the elm trees, 
Softly a breeze played, 
And the dry, parched leaves 
Noisily rustled, 
And the deep, sultry 

10 



146 POEMS. 

Air of the cottage 
Told the approaching 
Tempest was coming. 
Idle, boy anglers, 
Who through the day long^ 
In the blue lake, had 
Patiently fished for 
Nibblers, not worth the 
Trouble of scaling, 
Gave up their cruel 
Sport, for they well knew 
Fish would not bite when 
Raged the wild tempest, 
And the live thunder 
Now was loud roaring, 
Speaking with voice of 
Ten thousand lions, 
Caged in the pent cloud j 
And the bright lightning 
Seemed like the forked tongue 



THE LOVE OP THE HOUSEHOLD. 147 

Of some huge serpent 
Piercing the heavens. 
In the green meadow 
Feeding, the filly 
Heard the loud clang of 
Nature's war trumpet; 
And like a wild steed 
Snorting, the field o'er 
Bounds in her wild fright. 
Now comes the rain down, 
And the sharp hail stones 
On the roof clattering. 
As the old farmer 
Looks to the mountain, 
Sees the brave oak tvee 
Torn from its birth place j 
And the tall pine, cleft 
Into four-quarters, 
Hurled to the valley. 
Mary affrighted 



148 POEMS. 

Knows not but Harold, 
On the wild mountain, 
Breathes out his life breath 
To the wild tempest: 
Silently prays that 
God may preserve him. 
But what is coming- 
Over the stone bridge, 
Swift as the lightning ? 
It is the black steed 
Harold is driving; 
Now comes a loud clap 
Of the harsh thunder, 
And the fierce mettle 
Of the swift courser 
Fairly aroused is ; 
Wildly he dashes 
Saddle and rider, 
'Gainst the rude railing 
Of the old stone bridge. 



THE LOVE OF THE HOUSEHOLD. 149 

Has the dark river, 
Foaming and rushing, 
Swelled by the torrent, 
Poured down the mountain, 
Caught on its bosom 
Harold's dead body? 
Wildly, the farmer, 
Followed by Mary 
And the grandmother. 
Hastes to the wild scene ; 
Though the rain drenches. 
And the bolts threaten, 
Yet will they seek to 
Know if young Harold 
Living or dead is, 
Or, if the stream has 
Borne from their viewing; 
But they behold there 
Not Harold lifeless. 
But a pale stranger, 



150 POEMS. 



Bleeding and dying. 
Gently the farmer 
Raises the cold form ; 
Scarcely is able, 
Now he has grown old, 
To bear the strong man 
Into the cottage. 
This done they lay him 
On a couch; Mary 
Wipes off the red blood ; 
And the good grand dame, 
Like all old women, 
Skillful in nursing, 
Poundeth the bitter 
Wormwood, and bindeth 
On the deep flesh wound, 
And the good grandsire 
Mingles the cordial, 
Lavender, strong wine, 
Sweetened with honev. 



THE LOYE OP THE HOUSEHOLD. 151 

In their humane acts, 
Mind not the tempest, 
Till by chance, Mary 
Sees the bow painted, 
And the clouds broken. 
# * * * 

As the sun setting 
Hides his bright visage, 
Sinks the man dying. 
Calls the old farmer. 
Gives him a paper, 
Looks on the picture 
On the wall hanging, 
Then from earth passes. 
Mary feels lonely, 
And the air cool and 
Pure seems inviting 
Her, so she strays down 
By the rock in the 
Meadow, where she knows 
Harold is often 



152 POEMS. 

Seated for study, 
Or to contemplate 
On nature's beauties. 
As she approaches, 
Sees him there seated; 
Then she knows certain 
He has not rambled 
This day the mountains ; 
And her quick nature 
Prompts her to ask him. 
How are those sisters ? 
Show her the flowers. 
Specimens rare, that 
He has collected; 
Ask, if it thundered 
On the high mountain, 
And if the maidens 
Frighted hung round him^ 
As hangs the ivy 
Rotiud the old oak treej 



THE LOVE OF THE HOUSEHOLD. 153 

If he protected ; 
But she remembered 
That she had sworn to 
Conquer that spirit; 
So she approaches 
Careful, lest breaking 
In on the student's 
Dream philosophic, 
She may disturb some 
Thought worth preserving. 
He is not mindful 
That she is near him, 
Till her hand presses 
On his pale forehead; 
For he was sitting 
'Gainst a tree, leaning, 
With his hat lying 
On the rock by him ; 
Closed were his dark eyes, 
But when they opened, 



154 POEMS. 

Mary was sitting 
Closely beside him^ 
Mary, his Mary ; 
For so she told him 
She would one day be, 
Ere they were parting; 
And there she told him 
What was her anguish 
In the wild tempest; 
How she was fearing 
That she might never 
Tell him the story, 
That she so longed to 
Ere he first asked it. 
Then of the stranger 
Spoke, by whose coming 
All were affrighted ; 
How he had died there, 
Left a strange paper, 
No one was knowing 



THE LOVE OP THE HOUSEHOLD. 155 

What 'twas containing. 
Harold replying, 
Says, "we will enter 
Now the old cottage, 
For the ground damp is 
From the late shower ; 
We should not linger 
Long in the dampness." 
Happy they enter, 
Find the old farmer 
Reading the paper. 
It was no stranger 
That they had sheltered, 
But Mary's father, 
Unhappy Walter, 
Whom they supposed dead 
In a land distant. 
He had brought treasures, 
Left them for Mary. 
But why does Harold 



156 POEMS. 

Enter the cottage 
Now it is daylight, 
When the last evening 
He was so cautious ? 
This is the reason: 
" Mary no longer 
Can keep her secret 
Hid from grandmother, 
Nor does she care to," 



157 



CHAPTER IV. 



" Time, the tomb builder," 
Onward swift flying, 
Passes us silent, 
Whether we heed his 
Coming or going. 
Watch yonder hour-glass; 
See the sands running ; 
As one grain falleth, 



158 POEMS. 



Follows another; 
So precious moments 
One by one, stealthy 
Fly from our grasping, 
Bringing the long years ; 
Bearing the infant 
Swift up to youth time, 
Right on to manhood; 
Sprinkling the grey hairs 
As a sad token, 
That frost of age is 
Surely approaching; 
Bringing the vision 
Of the green curtained 
Bed of the long home. 
Man from reposing 
In his soft cradle, 
Lies in his coffin. 
Old age approaching, 
Rarely discovers 



THE LOVE OP THE HOUSEHOLD. 159 

That the mirid falters, 
Or that the body 
Is not SO powerful 
As it was younger; 
Nor is it strange that 
Man should deceived be. 
Since every year grows 
Shorter and shorter, 
And one's whole lifetime 
Is but the budding. 
Blooming and dying 
Of a field flower : 
" Like grass our days are 
And as the glory 
Of grass we perish." 
How in so short time, 
Can man consider 
All the strange changes ? 
How become willing, 
Even to own that 



160 POEMS. 

So few short years have 
Borne from him manhood, 
Brought second childhood ? 
Let a few years pass. 
Look at the cottage, 
Where, at our first view, 
Grandfather hale was. 
Although his locks then 
Wanted their dark hue ; 
Now those white locks gone; 
Only a few stray 
Hairs in the breeze play 
Round his brow wrinkled. 
Honor that bald head. 
See his form bending; 
He cannot follow 
Now the straight furrow. 
See, his steps totter; 
You can scarce hear him 
When he is coming, 



THE LOVE OF THE HOUSEHOLD. 161 

So light his foot fall; 
Only the slow thump 
Of his stafF marks his 
Wearisome progress. 
Dim are his eyes, and 
Words of affection 
Must twice be spoken 
Ere he can hear them. 
He from whom neighbors 
Used to ask counsel, 
Now needs advising. 
One hope remaineth 
Firm and unshaken — 
Hope of the country, 
Where there is no change; 
When there arriving. 
Clad in the garb of 
Youth everlasting. 
He may forever 
Dwell with the angels. 

u 



162 POEMS. 

And tlie old man's mind, 
Feeble to reason, 
Still is as strong as 
Youth, when he prayeth. 
Old age has drawn him 
Down to the yawning 
Grave, and he waiteth. 
Now is the " silver 
Cord" being "loosened," 
" Golden bowl broken," 
" And at the fountain. 
Broken the pitcher, " 
"And at the cistern 
Broken the wheel is;" 
"Dust" is returning 
" To earth as it was," 
And the blest " spirit 
To God who gave it ; " 
And the old man is 
Numbered on earth, with 



THE LOVE OF THE HOUSEHOLD. 163 

Those who are hidden; 
But up m heaven 
Known as an earth child, 
Who, through the strife and 
Cares of probation. 
Answered his callino;. 
And was made welcome 
To the high portals. 
Oh ! what a gloom was 
Spread o'er the household. 
When the grandfather's 
Body was carried 
Out from the parlor, 
Under an elm tree — 
One of those elm trees 
At the four corners. 
Which their broad shadows 
Throw o'er the low roof, 
And was there buried. 
Here in the dusk might 



164 POEMS. 

Have been seen seated, 
Bowed down with anguish, 
Grandmother, Mary, 
Mourning together; 
Though Mary's grief was 
Deep, yet she mourned not 
For the great centre 
Of her affections, 
As did grandmother; 
For when the good dame 
Saw that form buried. 
Which she had loved for 
Sixty-five long years, 
Then was the fountain 
Of her grief opened ; 
And her deep mourning 
Bore her on swiftly 
To the same resting; 
And all her prayer was, 
" When it shall please thee, 



THE LOVE OF THE HOUSEHOLD. 165 

Merciful Father, 
Take me up to him." 
Not long she lingered, 
Ere the waves parted 
That she might, dry shod, 
Cross o'er the river, 
Stream of death, shutting 
Her from her loved ones — 
Parting, yet meeting; 
For on each bank stood 
Friend forms ; on this side, 
Harold and Mary 
Bidding her " good bye ; " 
On that side, greeting. 
Husband and daughter; 
These were made sadder. 
Those were made gladder, 
She was the gainer. 
Now is our Mary 
Almost heart-broken; 



166 POEMS. 

For in the cottai^e 

Echo her footsteps, 

To her mind seeming 

Like the returning 

Footfalls of others; 

Everything voiceless 

Seems to be saying — 

"Where are the lost ones?" 

And the old arm-chair 

Vacant, inquireth, 

" Where is my master ? " 

And the brown distaff — 

That, she has hidden, 

So she may see it 

No more so silent. 

But in the twilight 

Ere Harold cometh. 

Paying his evening 

Visit to Mary, 

While the old house-dose 



THE LOVE OF THE HOUSEHOLD. 167 

Howls on the door step, 
Then her own shadow 
Frightens the maiden; 
And Harold's visits, 
Always so pleasant, 
Now she is lonely. 
Double their value ; 
He the sole object 
Of her affections ; 
And every parting 
Seems like the tearing 
Of Mary's heart-strings. 
Well Harold knows it; 
And one bright evening, 
When he was leaving, 
Asked Mary, smiling, 
If on the morrow 
He might bring with him. 
One who would bless them. 
Joining their right hands ? 



168 POEMS. 

And her reply was, 
"Would he were here now." 
Harold then stepping 
Out at the doorway- 
Calls to one waiting: 
It is the black gowned 
Worthy, whom Harold 
Bid there be list'ning 
For such a summons. 
Quickly he steppeth 
Into the kitchen, 
Bids the two lovers. 
Standing before him, 
Swear they will ever 
Live for each other; 
Then bids the blessing 
Of God be upon them. 
And quickly leaves them. 
But no more parting 
Is at the cottage. 



THE LOVE OP THE HOlTSEHOLD. 169 

Though the long hours pass, 
And bright Aurora 
Lights up the heavens; 
For now is Harold 
Happy with Mary, 
She, with her husband. 
And the grandparents 
In their graves sleeping 
Are not forgotten; 
For should you enter 
Now that old cottage, 
You might hear Mary 
Telling her "Mary," 
" Love of the Household," 
That, 'neath the elm trees 
Sleep those whose lives were 
Spent with the view that 
Heaven is above us. 



PIC-KIC POEM 



173 



PIC-NIC POEM. 



LINES RECITED AT A GRAND PIC-NIC. 



It was a summer day. 
I sat me down beside the sounding sea, 
To watch its billows as they rose and fell. 
The ancient trees that shut the day-king out 
Stood still; unshaken by the softest breeze. 
While seated there, in that romantic spot, 
I thought, as any other school boy would. 
That I was quite sublime ; and oft I sighed — 



174 POEMS. 

Would from my mind the muses snatch the 

veil, 
And breathe a dreamy spirit over me, 
Give me a glimpse of Mount Parnassus high, 
And bid my soul feed on ideal things. 
Would I might tread some spot untrod by man : 
Draw from its hiding place some secret thing : 
Give birth to thoughts before unknown to me ; 
And lose myself in dark immensity. 
Could I but reach those fair Elysian fields 
Where poets gather laurels for the brow, 
Then would my fondest dreams appear, 

portrayed 
In real shades; then might I well exclaim, 
Disturb me not; far better place me where 
The waves of some Tantulian lake might lave 
My breast; there bid me thirst; and when I 

fain 
Would sip its waters, bid them all recede; 
Give me to hunger, while the tempting vine 



PIC-NIC POEM. 175 

Hung o'er my head ; but should my eager hand 
Be raised to pluck one cluster for my food, 
Bid playful winds the branches bear away. 
Do this ; aye more ; but steal not from my gaze 
Poetic pictures which my fancies raise. 
As thus I mused I slept, and sleeping, dreamed. 
My dream I sing: Methinks I see e'en now 
That cavern, hollowed from the mountain's 

brow, 
A wild recess, where winds are kept in store, 
And where in chains unruly tempests roar. 
Thrust headlong down into that dismal deep, 
A chamber where the dead might fear to sleep, 
"Was I; and who can tell the dreadful chill 
Of terror, making every heart-string thrill, 
That to my cheek froze every falling tear, 
And filled my soul with an unearthly fear. 
All, all was still; a strange sight met my 

eye ; 
One lone star only broke the cloudy sky, 



176 POEMS, 

Which brighter grew, as slow it seemed to fall, 
Leaving the heavens for this terrestrial ball. 
Gently it came, as though some unseen hand 
Half loosed, yet still retained its fettering 

band ; 
Above my head it staid, and by its light 
Revealed the secrets of my cave of night : 
On either hand, a ghastly skeleton; 
And at my feet, a turbid streamlet run; 
Behind by back, coiled in a hideous pile, 
Foul toads and lizards, with the serpent vile ; 
Before my face, a magic beryl hung. 
In which I read, as to and fro it swung. 
Scenes of this life, in sunshine and in shade, 
Devoid of colors, truthfully displayed. 
I saw a lawyer, with his client near. 
For whom he knew no hope, yet offered cheer ; 
He told him that he thought for still more 

gold. 
Next court he mio-ht some new device unfold. 



PIC-NIC POEM. 177 

I looked again, the lawyer's conscience woke ; 
He made a vow, and ne'er that vow he broke, 
No more to plead a cause, unless the right 
Was on his side, then plead with all his might. 
Bv this, I knew one might, (though so few can) 
Practice at law and live an honest man. 
I saw two parsons ; one was called of God j 
The other called, but by some other nod. 
The last looked solemn in his suit of black. 
Sins not his own seemed resting on his back, 
And people thought, because he never smiled, 
His heart was right, his garments undefiled; 
But when they found he'd left in their array, 
Their purses stole, they wished he'd staid away. 
The man of God put on no extra airs. 
Nor filled the highways with his lengthy 

prayers ; 
But when he saw the people led astray, 
Proclaimed the threatening of the judgment 

day ; 

12 



178 POEMS. 

And to the soul who from his sins would cease, 
He pointed out the endless paths of peace. 
Next viewed a doctor, whom the people said 
Oft would not suffer that the sleeping dead 
Should hold in peace their claim within the 

ground, 
But dug them up, to see what might be found ; 
They called this horrid, yet thought he must 

know 
Where every bone and sinew ought to go ; 
And if he chanced to make a slight mistake. 
The poor man's life and honor were at stake. 
They little thought what he must undergo 
To learn what they thought he of course must 

know. 
And next a teacher — how unearthly white 
His brow appeared, within that beryl bright; 
His cheek was wan, his dark eye fierce and 

wild, 
His nerves unstrung, his disposition riled; 



PIC-NIC POEM. 179 

His very look, with terror ought to strike 
The hundred boys, where no two are alike ; 
But no ; my father told me not to mind 
Unless I pleased ; and I'm not much inclined, 
Says one ; another, that his parents say 
"When teachers scold 'tis time to run away. 
Yes, even then within his trembling hands 
He held a note ; the writer there demands 
Redress ; his little son has been abused, 
For trifling things which should have been 

excused. 
"What matter though he hid the master's hat ? 
That man's a brute who would reprove for that ; 
And should he not reform, will sure receive 
A gentle hint that he had better leave. 
Next came a student, with his books in hand, 
Deep in the mysteries of some foreign land. 
With brain half crazed, and pulses beating 

sore. 
Eager to drink in draughts of classic lorej 



180 POEMS. 

The angles whicli he learned were less obtuse 
Than his ideas of being fine and spruce ; 
And the Greek verbs, though knotty, ill 

compare 
With what was knotted worse — his tangled 

hair. 
The people called him worthless ; and all said 
Some day or other he would beg his bread. 
"The youth is lazy," half the town exclaims; 
As though it was not work to use one's brains. 
" Oh ! what extravagance,^^ the neighbors say, 
"A poor marl's son at school from day to day^ 
And 't was observed, at last, by one old maid — 
She wondered that he did not learn a trade. 
The student heeded not; I saw him gain 
The prize he long had striven to obtain; 
And when his former foes beheld his fame, 
Why then — they always knew he'd win a name. 
Then came a man who by fair means had made 
A fortune large, for well his plans had laid. 



PIC-NIC POEM. 181 

He watched the signs to see who next would 

fail, 
And was secure before the auction sale. 
This caused a murm'ring 'mong the financiers 
Of talents less; and to the rich man's ears 
Came strange reports; they wondered much 

the more 
That knavery had not shown its head before. 
They called him " rascal," and still harder 

names ; 
" His wealth could ne'er have come by honest 

gains." 
The rabble turned away, and would not speak 
Unless there was a favor they might seek; 
But if they had some great plan to put 

through. 
Which well they knew themselves they could 

not do. 
This blackleg, then, became a saint of light, 
And nothins: he could do but what was right. 



182 POEMS. 

A man appeared^ poor both in purse and health, 
And he was scorned by those who boasted 

wealth. 
His wife was called extravagant ; the cause 
Was, that folks lie the fastest picking flaws ; 
And then, perhaps, she had so fair a face. 
That it might well a rich man's parlor grace ; 
And all must own when envy's fire burns 

bright, 
'T will not expire for sake of doing right. 
Another class, one of the kind who rise 
For the same reason that another dies. 
The only way that they can higher go, 
Is treading down their neighbors next below; 
Root out the schemes, the people once have 

loved. 
Bring in their own, and set them far above. 
Next came a butcher, with his cart-top wliite ; 
His saw and cleaver in their sheaths shone 

bright J 



PIC-NIC POEM. 183 

With joints and sirloins of most any weight, 
The man of flesh could all accommodate ! 
One would suppose, since mankind love to 

eat, 
They'd love the man who peddled out the 

meat ; 
But if, forsooth, his sausages were cheap, 
The foul-tongued slanderer saw not fit to 

sleep ; 
But with a slur remarked, that sometimes dogs 
In equal flesh, would cost far less that hogs. 
I saw a woman, whose supreme delight 
Was in a kind of linguadental fight; 
And if she was not in some kind of row, 
Would force you to combat her any how; 
And if in manners you should chance to call 
On her, she straightway would begin a brawl ; 
No matter if you did not chance to know 
When used polite, she would not let you 

go. 



184 POEMS. 

I saw her to a foolisli fellow speak; 

He heard her through, most modestly and meek, 

And wond'ring all the while how dogs could 

eat 
Old Jezebel, or putrefying meat. 
I saw a maiden who was wond'rous fair, 
Eyes heavenly blue, with wealth of raven hair, 
And such a form as artist could not paint. 
With mind and disposition of a saint. 
And yet beside her stood a rival miss. 
Who would not listen to a word like this. 
Said she was plain, and most distressing proud, 
As though she thought among the handsome 

crowd 
Of village girls, she was the only flower. 
The very rose-bud of this earthly bower. 
But what appeared most to her rival strange, 
That any fellow who had power to range 
'Mong all the girls, should show so little mind 
As love this one and leave the rest behind. 



PIC-NIC POEM. 185 

I saw a couple who for money wed; 
Each wished the other or their own self dead ; 
Parents that told their daughter whom to love, 
Or whom to hate, as though some power 

above 
Had placed at their command their daughter's 

mind, 
Which at their pleasure they might loose or 

bind. 
They saw the tear-drop moisten oft her eye, 
And heard her sighing for the time to die ; 
And when they saw her going to the tomb, 
They knew what frost had nipped the early 

bloom. 
And last, of all the sights that did appear. 
Was a ^^ Grand Pic-Nic,^' and from far and near. 
The people came, in different dress arrayed, 
Of different minds, of every sort and shade; 
Of this mixed throng, two classes seemed to be, 
The stingy ones and those of money free ; 



186 POEMS. 

The stingy ones at length, in rays I saw, 
A sight so sad from any eye might draw 
Tears, bitter tears, unless they were like mine 
Directed to the lib'ral, gen'rous kind; 
For in my vision did the magic stone 
Burst, and its fragments one by one, 
Transformed to diamonds, on the bosoms fall 
Of those who money brought and spent it all. 

Here ends my dream; for buzzing round me 

thick. 
Mosquitoes flew; I woke and seized a stick; 
And when I drove the insects from my bed, 
I found with them, my muse had also fled. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



189 



JOHN ANDRE. 



'T is evening hour : the moon's pale light 
Falls on the Briton's paler brow, 

Bright sunshine yields to stilly night, 
The owl begins her night-song now. 

Still mounted on his warlike steed, 
Sits Andre, dreaming of the past, 

And musing on that last dark deed. 
He wishes nio;ht mig-ht ever last. 



190 POEMS. 

No sleep for him who feels the dread 
That guilt or danger always brings ; 

Alas, the fatal words are said, 

And " treason " on the night air rings. 

That fatal paper, too, he bears; 

That paper dyed in sin and shame ; 
Traced on its darkened face it wears 

The hateful, trait'rous Arnold's name. 

The morning comes, he seeks a spring 
Where he may slake his burning thirst; 

Among the trees the linnets sing, 
As happy as tliey sung when first 

They saw the sun o'er Eden rise. 
When earth was young, and time began. 

And 'mid the flowers of Paradise 

They hovered 'round the first-born man. 



JOHN ANDEE. 191 

But hark ! the sound of coming feet, 
And Andre's cheek becomes more pale ; 

Now Briton haste thy fate to meet; 
Let not a soldier's courage fail. 

They ask his name. Will he deny 
His flag, his country, and his king ? 

Yes ; for base soldiers fear to die ; 
Death to the good no harm can bring. 

" That broad, pale forehead's look of pride," 
Is hidden by the veil of shame j 

Up to his brow the crimson tide 

Mounts, as he feigns another's name. 

Oh, Andre ! thou canst not deceive 
The patriot gaze that falls on theej 

'T were open madness to believe 
Thyself from dread suspicion free. 



192 POEMS. 

The blush, the voice, the downcast eye 
Are volumes speaking thy disgrace ; 

All hope is gone, and thou must die, 
And cause thy sire to hide his face 

In shame for thee; and bid the tears 

Course down thy mother's withered cheek. 

As once they did, when, free from fears. 
You vowed a soldier's life to seek. 

The guilt is known; for now behold 

That scroll, bound by the traitor's seals. 

Though archly hid, is found, unrolled; 
Dismounting Andre humbly kneels, 

And begs his captors to forgive ; 

" Abroad let not the tale be told ; 
I cannot die ! 0, let me live ! 

I pledge the wealth of gems and gold." 



JOHN ANDRE. 193 

" This diamond ring, this watch is thine, 
My horse, proud, jBeeting as the deer: 

This cursed paper I'll resign, 

But tell them not who brought it here." 

"Put up thy bribes, thou fallen man; 

For judgment, death await thee now; 
No more shall England's breezes fan, 

Or zephyrs kiss thy sin-stained brow." 

Again he prays ; he prays that he may die 
Not as a dog, but as a soldier, lie 
Pierced with the bullet or the shining blade, 
And clad with martial dress, in dust be laid. 

But no ! Death must embrace him on the tree, 
A warning dire to soldiers such as he; 
The rope make ready, and the noose prepare 
Let strains of plaintive music rend the air, 

13 



194 POEMS. 

Once more he spoke, and to a comrade said, 
"Tell England's sons that Andre now is dead. 
Oh ! tell my father, though I stained his name, 
I was unmoved when death and vengeance came. 

" Oh ! tell my mother never more to weep, 
Although her child so far away must sleep ; 
I never more can grieve her gentle breast 
When 'neath the cold and icy clods I rest. 

" And there's another, whose bright eye will fill 
When I am dead; tell her I loved her still; 
And ever will, though sleeping in the grave, 
Her guardian be, her feet from snares to save.^ 

" Good by : my bed is ready, I must sleep : 
Tell all the dear ones not for me to weep; 
Now come, Death I My sins, Great God 

forgive, 
Pardon and cleanse, and fit with Thee to live." 



195 



ELEGIAC LINES 

(Jn the death op two young friends in p. 



My heart is swelling with its flood of grief; 
My eyes grow dim, and tears bedew the page ; 
For gloomy thoughts break in upon the mind, 
Thoughts of the loved who now in death 

repose. 
Borne from my sight, to rest within the grave, 
Hid from the sunlight of the pleasant day, 
Shut up alone beneath the cold, cold stone. 



196 POEMS. 

I see thee, Mira, as I saw tliee when 

Thy cheek was wan, thy pulses faint and few, 

And when the tide of life was ebbing slow : 

Faint, like a dove, when weary in its course, 

Crushed like a flower 'neath a careless tread, 

Or like a bud nipped by untimely frost. 

Since then have come the angels to conduct 

Thy spirit to its happy home above. 

The vale of death before thee opened wide, 

It was not dark to thee, for He who made 

The sun, shone there so bright that all was 

light. 
To thee was given by faith to view the crown, 
Held out to thee, among the radiant stars : 
I know that thou art sleeping in the dustj 
But, Howard, is it true that thou art gone ? 
I never saw thee when disease had lain 
His heavy hand upon thy manly form; 
When last I saw, thy voice rang clear in song, 
Bright was thine eye, and active ev'ry limb. 



ELEGIAC LINES. 197 

They tell me thou art sleeping with the dead : 
I weep, and cannot have it so : shall I 
Ne'er clasp again, with thee, the friendly hand ? 
Or join with thee to raise the. sacred hymn, 
On earth ? No, ne'er again ; but in '' the realm 
Where angels have their birth," there may we 

sing. 
Oh cruel Death ! 't is thy delight to mark 
The fairest forms, and pluck them for thine 

own J 
The ones we fain would keep in chains of 

love, 
Pierced by thy darts, are hurried to the 

grave, 
Those shining marks that most proclaim thy 

power, 
Are stricken by thy ruthless, tyrant hand. 
But God is in it : why should I repine ? 
His hand directs afflictions for our good : 
He bids us mourn that we may see how frail 



198 POEMS. 

These bodies are, and bids us to prepare 
When he shall call, with cheerful steps to 



Trusting in Him "Wio doeth all things welL^' 



199 



TECUMSEH. 



Wlien Gen. Harrison was In council with this distin- 
guished man, he thus addressed him : " Sit on yonder 
seat, which your white father has prepared for you." Te- 
cumseh, prompted by a spirit free as the wind, replied, 
" You my father? No, the sun is my father, the, earth my 
mother, and I will not rest till I repose on her hosoin. 

W. R. 

The war-whoop is hushed over forest and hill ; 
The hum of thy council forever is still; 
And now, lying dead in thy " mother^s embrace," 
Thou mayest repose with the last of thy race. 



200 POEMS. 

Thy vow -was •well kept, standing ready to take 
The life of thy foe, a new conquest to make j 
To add one more scalp to the badge of thy fame, 
Was the hope of each hour, the labor and aim. 

Thy heart beats no more, for the warrior has fled 
To fair hunting grounds, in the realms of the 

dead; 
Where white man comes not, but sable sons 

reign, 
Reign monarchs supreme, in their ghostly 

domain. 

Rest on, brave Tecumseh ! thy battles are o'er, 
The gleam of thy steel frights the pale face 

no more. 
And thy father, the sun, proudly views from 

on high. 
That, fighting for country and friends, thou 

didst die. 



201 



TO ROYER. 



Rover, wlien a little boy, 
I wa^ almost wild with joy, 
As one pleasant summer night, 
I received ijou, puppy white, 
Marked with spots of shining black, 
On your ears and on your back. 
I remember how you cried, 
Taken from your mother's side; 



202 POEMS. 

Softly covered in my bed, 
Hearing you, my young heart bled; 
And I planned that you might be 
Sleeping snug and warm with me ; 
So to end the childish freak, 
Rose, your little nest to seek; 
Took you, trembling, to my bed, 
On the pillow laid your head, 
And at morn, your puppy nose 
Woke me pulling off the clothes. 
Then I learned you how to speak 
"Bow-wow," for your food; and seek 
For the ball the boys at play 
Carelessly had thrown away ; 
And I learned you how to catch 
Woodchucks in the garden patch, 
Where they often came to eat 
Beans and three-leaved clover sweet. 
Well I know thy doggish brain 
Mem'ries may for years contain, 



TO ROVER. 203 

And I wisli that thou couldst tell 
All the thoughts that therein dwell. 
To my questions your reply, 
Wagging tail, and bright'ning eye, 
Though I understand that -well, 
Still thou hast no way to tell 
If thou hast forgotten quite, 
One who fed thee morn and night; 
Grandmama, who loved me so 
That she feared to let me go 
From her sight, loved thee so well 
That she bid me never sell. 
For the love I bear the dead, 
While I have a loaf of bread, 
You shall ever share the crust, 
And when dead, as die you must. 
If on earth I then remain. 
None shall ere thy dust profane; 
But shall rest beneath the shade 
Of the trees where we have played. 



204 POEMS. 

Thou art now grown weak and old, 

Faithful Eove ! and I am told 

Often, since thou art so lame, 

I deserve a deal of blame 

That I do not have thee slain, 

End thy sorrows and thy pain; 

But would those who thus reprove, 

So be changed to those they love ? 

Would they kill an aged friend, 

Who had no more strength to spend 

In their service; or befriend. 

Care for them, as I for thee ? 

If not let them learn of me. 

Rover ! I have penned for thee 

" DoggWel rhyme ; " a " bone " would be 

Doubtless to thy canine eye 

Better gift, "not half so dry," 

Bigger dogs than you reply. 



205 



THE WITHERED BOUQUET. 



Beautiful flowers I 
Why should I love you so ? 

In the green bowers 
Lovlier, fairer grow; 
Withered and colorless, 

Faded and dead, 
Why should I love you so ? 



206 POEMS. 

Perishing flowers ! 
Thou a memento art; 

Speaking of hours 
Dear to my throbbing heart f 
Silently eloquent, 

Speaking, though dead, 
Thou a memento art. 

Twice has the spring past 
Since thou wert given me ; 

Will thy perfume last 
Long as I cherish thee ? 
Thou hast been carefully 

Treasured away. 
Since thou wert given me. 

Gift of a maiden, 
All the whole world to me : 

Art thou not laden 
With the same parity? 



THE WITHERED BOUQUET. 207 

Yes, for thy language is 

Breathing the same, 
All the whole world to me. 



208 



THE POREST GRAVES. 



Where the clear waters of a winding stream 
Flow down to mingle with the salt sea foam, 

There is a grove, which e'er to me will seem 
A sacred spot, wherever I may roam. 

A sacred place, for 'neath the oak tree's shade. 
That like a curtain green is spread around, 

The forest sons their resting place have made, 
Aweary of this earthly hunting ground. 



THE FOREST GRAVES. 209 

Their names forgotten are: no monument 
Was reared to tell the careless passers by, 

Above whose ashes they perchance have bent. 
To cull the flowers that there profusely lie. 

Oft have I wished, while wand'ring 'mong 
those trees. 

In summer evening's silent, starry hour, 
The red man's spirit on the murm'ring breeze. 

Might come to me, within that quiet bower, 

And tell me who are sleeping there so still, 
And what the fortunes were of those so brave ; 

Though spectres come not, yet my fancy will 
Call up a form from every moss-grown grave. 

Beneath this mound the Chieftain takes his rest, 
His sceptre rude is lying by his side. 

His wampum belt is wound about his breast, 
His bear-skin mantle on, as when he died. 

14 



210 POEMS. 

Around him sleep the warriors he had led, 
To the avenging war with savage pride ; 

A bow and quiver rots beneath each head, 
A spear and battle-axe by every side. 

Beneath that mound the Powow sleeps in death, 
Magician, priest, the pride and nation's love, 

Disclosed their future fate, returned his breath 
To him who gave, the Powow great, above. 

Perchance he saw, while looking through the veil 
That hid the scene, a pale-faced stranger band 

Give to the eastern breeze the snowy sail. 
To seek a home within tliis Western laud; 

But he was sleeping with his fathers, long 
Before they came the red man's land to claim. 

Hushed was the music of his fun'ral song, 
And cold the ashes of his fun'ral flame. 



THE FOREST GRAVES. 211 

The Chieftain, warrior and soothsayer bold 
Have gone, "where now it grieves them not 
to see 

The white man rear his cottage, where of old 
Their council fires and wigwams used to be. 



212 



NOX INCUBAT MARI. 



Night, like a bird of omen ill, 
Is brooding o'er the deep; 

The stars, subscrv'ent to the will 
That bids them shine, still keep 

Their silent watching over me, 

A wand'rer on the foaming sea. 



NOX INCUBAT MARI. 213 

The northern constellations wear 

The impress of the hand, 
That to the pole-star chained the " Bear," 

And formed " Arcturus " grand; 
And when no other power was nigh 
Hung stars as bright in southern sky. 

The same blue canopy above 

O'erhangs the quiet home, 
Where now repose the ones I love, 

While far from them I roam; 
Sweet sleep has closed each gentle eye, 
But mine still watching sea and sky. 

The light of yonder rising moon 

Falls on the mossy seat, 
Where I received this precious boon 

From one who came to meet. 
This raven curl, a boon of love 
From one who now is crowned above. 



214 POEMS. 

This silver light bedecks the stone 
That marks her lowly bed; 

She feared at eve if left alone, 
And will she not though dead? 

Soon will they lay me by the side 

Of her who was to be my bride. 

Blow, gentle breeze ; the snowy sail 

Is ready set for thee; 
Bear me along that I may hail 

The only home for me ; 
That friendly hands may make my bed, 
And watch me sleeping with the dead. 



The breezes listened to the song, 
They bore the sailor's barque along; 
But ere the wished for shore drew nigh, 
The wand'rer pale in death did lie; 



NOX IN CUB AT MAEI. 215 

And, buried in the foaming deep, 
He takes his last and longest sleep ; 
He resteth not beside his love. 
Winds roar, and mad waves roll above. 



216 



LENA MAY, 



OR THE WRECK OF THE FISHER-BOY. 



'T is midnight, and the restless wind 

Shrieks like an eagle, when her young are torn 

From out the eyrie, and the clouds 

Seem from the horrid pit of darkness borne. 

As rising o'er the mountain's top, 

They hurl their contents on the world below ; 
The thunder, lightning and the rain 

Which louder, brighter, more terrific grow. 



LENA MAT. 217 

The lake, whose surface was at noon 

Unbroke, save when the swallows clipped 
their wings, 
Now like old ocean madly roars, 

And far around its sheets of white foam 
flings. 

In such a war of elements, 

Oh ! who would dare stand on that troubled 
shore ? 
When earth itself seemed terrified, 

Should not a helpless maiden fear still 
more ? 

So would it seem ; but Lena May 

Now strives to pierce the deep, the thick- 
'ning gloom. 
Although the waves that 'round her roll 

Almost engulf her in a wat'ry tomb. 



218 POEMS. 

She dares the blast; why does she so? 

For what does fearless Lena's bosom yearn ? 
Across the lake, her Fisher-boy 

Has gone, and here she waits for his return. 

And vainly too, for ne'er again 

Will meet his gaze, return his fond caress, 
Hear of his love, his whispered vows, 

No more the Fisher-boy will Lena bless. 

But now, at last, the storm has ceased, 

The struggling moon looks through the 
cloudy veil. 

The thunder 's hushed, the winds are still. 
No sound is heard. Fair Lena sees no sail. 

She wanders o'er the pebbled shore — 

Heavens ! is not this the form she wildly 
sought ? 
Ah yes ! her Fisher-boy is found. 

What now is life to heart-broke Lena ? 
Naudit ! 



LENA MAY. 



219 



She kneels before his lifeless clay, 

Her words are wild, and wildly glares lier 
eye, 
She smooths the locks from off his brow, 

Then bows her head upon him, there to die. 



220 



THE VOYAGE OE LIEE. 



YOUTH. 



On tlie winding stream of lifetime, 

Youth begins his voyage romantic, 

In a boat fantastic sailing, 

With its pennon gaily flying, 

With the breeze its white sail filling, 

Breezes from the misty islands, 

From the looked for isles of pleasure ; 

As he floats he hears the ripple, 



THE VOYAGE OF LIFE. 221 

Dainty ripple of the wavelet, 
And he thinks the shore draws nearer. 
Sees a bubble on the surface, 
And he grasps the air-born bubble, 
Thinking he has found a treasure ; 
When he opes his hand to view it, 
Finds it only running water. 
Sees a speck upon the blue sky, 
Sees in air the sea-gull flying, 
Hears the sea-gull loudly shrieking, 
And he thinks it is an eagle, 
A fierce eagle mad for plunder, 
Or some bird of dreadful omen, 
And the youth is terror stricken, 
Frightened by a harmless sea-gull. 
Sees a cloud rise from the westward, 
Sees a dark cloud span the heavens, 
Dark and thick, and fast arising, 
And he thinks it is an angel 
Coming swift to seize his frail bark, 



232 POEMS. 

Leave him struggling with the water; 
But when drops of rain are falling, 
Holds his hands to catch the rain drops, 
Thinks the cloud a jetty casket, 
And the rain drops falling diamonds ; 
But one dashing on his eyelid, 
Thinks again it is an angel. 
Thinks it is an angel weeping. 
Thus the youth in boat fantastic. 
Sailing down the stream of lifetime. 
Spends the hours in castle building, 
And in scenes of the ideal. 
Vain as grasping floating bubbles. 
Or as fearing screaming sea-gulls, 
Making clouds appear like angels. 
And the rain-drops falling diamonds, 
Or like tears of weeping angels. 



THE VOYAGE OF LIFE- 223 



MANHOOD. 



On the winding stream of lifetime, 
Manhood sails in lofty frigate, 
Guarded by the well- wrought cable, 
"With the anchor and the life boat, 
And he trusts not idle dreaming 
But he studies well the compass, 
"Watches for the hidden sand bar, 
For the frowning rock and lee shore. 
For the lee shore and the breakers, 
Till he sees a galley floating, 
With its oars of gold and silver, 
And its oar-locks pearl and jasper, 
And its awnings silk and purple, 
And the galleijs name is beauty; 
Woman is its fair commander. 
Then the rudder bands are loosened, 



224 POEMS. 

Of the frigate and each sail set, 
Every sail with hope gales filling, 
Till it uears the witching galley; 
Then his ears are filled with music, 
And his mind with idle dreaming, 
And he studies not the compass. 
Close pursues the galley, beauty. 
Heedless quite of rocks and sand bars. 
Till the galley close beside him. 
Yields herself a willing pris'ner; 
Then with cords and cables bound fast, 
Down life's tide together sailing, 
On all sides perchance surrounded 
By those little boats fantastic. 
Boats in wliich the young are sailing, 
Down the winding stream of lifetime. 



THE VOYAGE OF LIFE. 225 

OLD AGE. 

On the wmding stream of lifetime, 
Old age floats in ship well shattered, 
Shattered by the howling winds' wrath, 
By the blasts of disappointment, 
By the rude gales of affliction. 
Sails are hanging torn and tattered, 
Broken masts are falling downward, 
Anchors, chains, by rust are eaten, 
And the hull once gaily painted, 
Now has dingy grown by wearing. 
By the ice of eighty winters. 
By the suns of eighty summers; 
And the rudder rudely brok'cn, 
Turns not, though the feeble helmsman 
Labors at the rotten tiller. 
And the ship has ceased its sailing, 
Only moves as by the waves borne, 

14 



226 POEMS. 

Only as the running stream flows ', 
And at last the old ship founders, 
And the rotten planks are floating; 
Still the oaken ribs and keelson 
Show that once a ship was builded, 
And, perchance among the ruins, 
Ruins of this earth production. 
You may still discern the spirit 
Of the ancient brave commander, 
Ling'ring in this wreck of sea-craft, 
'Mong the broken ribs and keelson. 
Till the wreck shall sink forever 
In the winding stream of lifetime. 



227 



THE CRUCIFIXION. 



The moimtains hide the sun from Galilee; 
And Jewish maidens gazing on the sea, 
Yiew mirrored stars in every babbling wave, 
That onward rolls the pebbly bank to lave. 

How sweetly still ! The winds are hushed to 

rest, 
And earth seems sleeping on its Maker's breast, 
Secure beneath the watch-care of that God, 
Who hung in space, and governs by his nod. 



228 POEMS. 

The day has passed, and evening's solemn hour 
That shuts the petals of the day-time flower, 
Bids mortal eyes in balmy sleep to close, 
And weary ones to court a night's repose. 

But one there is whose soul is filled with grief, 
Not joyous scene, nor sleep, may yield relief. 
With chosen friends in the still garden strays, 
There bids them watch, and to his Father prays. 

Prays with a voice while prostrate on the sod. 
That melts the heart, and bows the ear of God : 
Gethsemane, where soft the moon-beams play. 
Drinks up his tears, and hears the Saviour pray. 

God, who from Teman came, will he not spare 
The son, who holds with him an equal share 
In all the beatific realms above. 
Where angels dwell, and every thought is love ? 



I THE CRUCIFIXION. 229 

Will he not dash the cup from him away? 
Nor suffer longer to be bound in clay? 
No ; deep must drink, the bitter dregs must drain 
Ere he again his father's throne regains. 

A crown of thorns be bound about the brow. 
Of him, whose power might crush the world 

e'en now; 
A kiss betray, humanity must die 
And rise again ere he ascends on high. 

His hour has come; on sad Golgotha's height 
In shame the sun withdraws its cheerful light, 
While from their graves the ancient dead arise, 
And nature quakes, for lo ! her Author dies. 

Firm rocks are rent, and from their stations 

hurled ; 
Bright lightnings flash, and thunders shake the 

world ; 
The Saviour hangs, and in his pangs he cries : 
•'Forgive them, Father !" bows his head and dies. 



230 POEMS. 

Exult, thou mortal terror, gaping womb 
Of earth, for ne'er again in thee, oh, tomb ! 
Shall be inurned so holy dust ; for know 
A God dwelt in that form while here below. 

Nor shall blood-crested worms feed on such fare, 
Or sacred mould turn from the ploughman's 

share ; 
Death, not corruption, on that form may rest ; 
And death hath lost its power thus being blest. 

Ascended now and ta'en the seat above, 
No more on earth to agonize ; in love 
The Saviour pleads, and pointing to his side. 
Reminds the Father how he bled and died; 

And for his sake beseeches God to spare 
The wayward ones, whose sins he came to l)ear ; 
Weeps when he sees the hardened sinner die, 
Who will not turn to him a prayerful eye. 



THE CRUCIFIXION. 231 

Sees Mm refuse the speaking blood, which saith, 
" Mine is the power to save from second death ;" 
'T is this that tears anew the wounded flesh, 
And daily spills his precious blood afresh. 

Shall I be one, anew to crucify, 

By scorning Him who came from heaven to 

die? 
No ! let me yield to him that better part, 
A contrite spirit and a broken heart. 



232 



PLUTO AND PROSERPINE. 



The heathen writers love to tell 

How Jove, their chief god, used to dwell 

On mount Olympus' giddy height, 

And there ruled men, with supreme right. 

Nor men alone, each lesser god 
Obeyed his fiat and his nod ; 
King Neptune, Mars, and old Pluto, 
Who reigned in Hades, down below. 



PLUTO AND PEOSERPINE. 233 

Mars was his son and should obey; 
And so was Phoebus, god of day; 
But Neptune, who o'er waters swayed, 
His brother loved, and so obeyed. 

Old Pluto, though to Saturn born. 
Who helped to kick that god forlorn 
From heaven to earth, obeyed Jove's sway, 
Because he seldom crossed his way. 

For Jove, with eagles at command, 
Could nothing want in Pluto's land; 
And it was seldom Pluto came 
From out the sulphurous smell of flame. 

And when he came to ask of Jove 
Some gift, the goddesses all strove 
That he might have his heart's desire ; 
Nor longer with his presence tire. 



234 POEMS. 

For lie "was horrid to behold; 
And dead men were by him controlled. 
The girls, of course, of him were shy; 
Before they 'd marry him they 'd die. 

It chanced that Pluto fell in love, 
So straightway to the throne above 
Of Jove he went, and being there. 
He sought Miss Proserpine, the fair. 

Jove told old Pluto not to fret, 
Or hope the maiden e'er to get, 
Ne'er would her mother let her go. 
To Orcus' shade, that realm of woe. 

But Jove, persuaded, by and by. 
Said, Pluto, if by being sly 
You'll steal the girl, why very well, 
"Wed her and make her queen of h — 11. 



PLUTO AND PROSEEPINE. 235 

One day as Pluto took a ride, 
By Enna's forest fair and wide, 
He saw the maiden gathering flowers. 
Among the glens and dewy bowers. 

He quickly seized her, though she cried, 
And placed her safely by his side, 
Then through a cavern dark and wild. 
He bore the goddess Ceres' child. 

MORAL. 

Now all you girls that flirt about. 
Mind you, old Pluto's on the scout; 
If you coquette at such a rate. 
You may be driven to his gate. 



236 



VANITY AND CHANGE. 



The gilded arrow 

On the village steeple, 
That 's always turning 

As the breezes blow, 
An emblem fit of 

Parson and of people, 
Is all vain (vane) show. 



VANITY AND CHANGE. 237 

And very vainly, 

The most holy liver, 
That prays or praises 

Lives, 't is very plain, 
Since flows the blood, 

Which is the great life giver, 
Sometimes in vein (vain.) 

And men in dying, 

As they cross the river, 
Are always whiter 

Than they were before ; 
More lie (lye) than die, (dye) and 

Often is the liver 
Sound as of yore ; 

Unless they die of 

Some disease hepatic, 
An over boiling 

Of the " boiling bile,'' 



238 POEMS. 

Tlie liver then is 

"■ Biled/' and that emphatic, 
Though raw the while. 

The farmer even, 

Often though appearing 

A stable man, is 
Very fond of turns, 

He turns the furrow, 

From his course 7iot veering; 

Thus change he earns. 

The greatest changers 
In the whole creation, 

Are those who take the 
Change for what we buy; 

Unless it is the 

Worm, by strange mutation, 

Changed to a fly. 



VANITY AND CHANGE. 239 

There is a chancre to 

Fiddlers more annoying, 
Than even clianse of 

Flatting A to G — 
Those bits of silver, 

Brassy by alloying. 
That count but three. 



F INIS. 



iVi^n.'^^.y °'' CONGRESS 

ni III III 1 1 II I II II. ill 

016 211 700 2 



